


Enemies Foreign And Domestic

by CaseyStar



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, First Time, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Minor Character Death, Pining, Threats, non graphic depiction of injuries from gunshot, non graphic gun violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseyStar/pseuds/CaseyStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton has been the head of President Coulson's security detail for three years now.  It'd be a pretty sweet gig if it wasn't for the constant danger and being in love with his boss.  Mostly the being in love with his boss thing, if he's honest.  It's really putting a crimp in his day.  Until, that is, there's a greater threat out there than whether or not he really can do blind from jerking off constantly to thoughts of his boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enemies Foreign And Domestic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Max72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Max72/gifts).



> The prompt chosen was 'Coulson is the President and Clint is his head of security'.
> 
> While the facts about AF1 are true, no, I highly doubt this is how the secret service would handle just about anything! but what would be the fun in that?
> 
> Over on tumblr [ kcsplace](http://kcsplace.tumblr.com), so come say hello here if you want.

_“We’re in a position to do a lot of good. You’d be in a position to do a lot of good as a part of that. And hey, who wouldn’t want to be at the centre of the weirdest and greatest show on Earth?”_

From his post at the door of the Presidential office on Air Force One, Head of Security Clint Barton couldn’t help the smirk that twisted his lips. President Coulson really knew how to sell a job. Barton knew the young media expert that the President had insisted on interviewing was going to take the job, no matter how hard she was trying to front otherwise.

Nobody would submit themselves to the sort of frisking that Romanov excelled at, or the wrath of Melinda May, if they didn’t really want to be there, regardless of what Skye grumbled as Clint had brought her onto the plane, complaining bitterly about expecting a black bag over her head at any second.

From the look May had been levelling at the door, and by extension Barton, from the moment Skye had been squirreled on board without her knowledge and after she’d voiced her considerable disapproval and concerns as to bringing the known hacker on board, the Chief of Staff was going to have a few choice words for the President about bypassing the safety protocols she insisted upon.

Or silences. May really knew how to work a silence.

Barton hoped Skye knew what she was in for, because she was soon going to find out what a mouse felt like when a hawk circled overhead. He wasn’t quite successful at biting back his snort of amusement at the months of fun and games he was going to witness.

_“You got a sweet ride here, it’s pretty tempting. But hitching a ride on the crazy plane? I’m going to need some real incentive.”_

_“Pretty tricky, right?” For the first time during the meeting, Coulson’s tone lost its professional edge, excitement replacing it. “It’s got a range you wouldn’t believe, security protocols up the wazoo, it was totally refurbished when it was designated Air Force One from the studs up and it’s not like other planes-”_

_“You really like your toy, don’t you?”_

_“I very much love my toy. And you can be one of those that I get to share it with, if you’ll consider coming on board.”_

_“Did - did you just make a pun?”_

Oh yeah, this was going to be good.

*

“Smile!” Billy Koenig, one of the three identical brothers that acted as stewards, held up a camera as Skye stepped out of the office fifteen minutes later.

“What was that?!” Skye stumbled, blinking furiously, head jerking backwards to evade the intense flash. Clint bit down on a smirk as he caught Coulson’s huff of amusement as he reached to shut the office door.

“You need a lanyard,” Koenig was checking on the quality of the picture, the scowl on his face suggestive it wasn’t up to par.

“A what?”

“A lanyard,” Koenig repeated, glancing to Barton curiously as though unsure as to how to proceed in the face of Skye’s confusion.

“I need a lanyard?”

“Y’think?” Barton answered, rolling his eyes.

“Can’t we do it later? When I’m not blind, or after I touch up my makeup or that scary woman over there isn’t glowering at me like she wants to throw me out the plane without a parachute? Maybe after some probes in dark and unpleasant places?”

“No. No, absolutely not. There are protocols. If you’re on board, you need a lanyard. There are safety measures that you completely bypassed-”

“I was with him!” Skye jabbed a finger into Barton’s chest, making an appreciative sound at the firmness of his muscles. “Huh, well, aren’t you all muscular and attractive-”

“Protocols, Miss…”

“Skye.”

“Your last name.

“No last name. I was abandoned, so no family. So by extension no family name to inherit. I go by Skye. I’m like Cher.”

“Yes, but Cher has a last name on her documentation. It’s Sarkisian.” Koenig nodded in satisfaction as he adjusted the settings on the camera.

“I’m kinda concerned you know that,” Barton interjected, earning an agreeing nod from Skye.

“I don’t have one,” she continued. “I legally changed it.”

“From?”

“Don’t make me say it,” Skye pleaded, glancing around to see if anyone else was listening. “I’m kind of hoping to keep it on the down-low.”

“C’mon, Skye, let the guy do his job,” Clint cajoled. He was already well aware of her previous name, but he really wanted to hear her say it. If she couldn’t handle a little interrogation from a Koenig, she wasn’t going to survive a day in the West Wing.

“Do I have to?”

“If you want to, you can always decline the job and deplane-”

Skye rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest as she grit out her answer through clenched teeth, a sarcastic smile on her face.

“The orphanage named me Mary Sue Poots so…”

“That’s a good change.” Clint’s smirk didn’t falter as Skye smacked a hand into his chest, despite her blow being deceptively painful.

“Thanks muscle man.”

“Smile!” Billy held the camera up again, evidently more pleased with the second effort than the first, shuffling aside as May stalked into the office without knocking, a tower of paperwork in her arms. Clint braced himself for a door slam but that wasn’t May’s style. Instead she closed the door with a quiet ‘snick’.

“I’ll be right back,” replacing the cap onto his camera, Koenig strode away, practically skipping with the joy of compiling a new ID. Clint really needed to help him and his brothers to get a life.

“It’s tradition to have a shitty ID card. You should see Barnes’.”

“Which is he?”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

“But not to the lady that wants to kill me, right?”

“She’s gonna be busy killing the President.”

“Isn’t it your job to stop her?”

“Oooh no. I wanna live. When I took this job, May told me not to get involved in their disagreements. This is me not getting involved.”

*  
It hadn’t taken long to introduce Skye around, Clint sticking predominantly to the Secret Service agents and to the assistants to senior personnel; the key to access and influence with anyone in management was a strong and respectful relationship with their assistant. Skye would need to build a good rapport with each and every one of them in order to carry out her new role effectively, given how the support staff controlled every aspect of their boss’ schedules.

Skye’s face had lit up when she’d been introduced to the President’s security detail – not that Clint could blame her given how they were an exceptionally attractive bunch - especially Tripp, the handsome agent equally taken by the new media expert.

The pair had been deep in conversation when Keonig had returned, a grey length of strapping wrapped around his fingers, Skye’s new ID dangling between his fingers, presenting it to its new owner with pride. Clint wouldn’t have been surprised if it was still warm.

Skye lifted her lanyard over her head, flicking her curls free. She held the ID out to Clint.

'What d'ya think, secret agent man?"

"That the Koenigs need a life." He examined the ID. "I'd say I can't believe they travel with a laminating machine but they make a good lanyard."

Clint let go of the card and let it bounce against her chest. Now you've just got to keep it."

"Gee. Thanks? Any tips? "

"Don't give me a reason to shoot you?”

“Funny guy.”

“Not kidding.”

"Oh..kay.  I'll keep that in mind now I'm part of the Power Rangers, or whatever."

Skye didn't hide her appreciation as she looked the team over, ignoring their squawks of outrage, a frown marring her brow. “Is there a reason everyone is wearing the same suit? Do I have to wear the same suit?  Is this like a cult thing? I was never good at a uniform and poly-blend does nasty things to my skin.”

“No, but this hippie thing,” Clint waved a hand at Skye’s outfit, “that’s gotta go.”

“Hippie?! Did you just-”

“I’ll take you shopping,” Darcy offered. The executive assistant to Press Secretary Potts had her own somewhat eclectic wardrobe and her sartorial choices were towards the casual end of business-casual but even that would be more appropriate to the West Wing than Skye’s current get up.

“Great. Hey, can I ask something?”

Clint was getting whiplash from the topic changes but had the feeling he was just going to have to get used to it.

Unless May really did kill her.

Which was still up for debate really.

“I’d be shocked if you didn’t.”

“What’s with the stars?” Skye ignored Clint’s response. “In the office, and in one of the other rooms, there’s stars on the carpet but not out here.”

“That’s because this is a common space.”

“Huh?”

“The stars are only on the areas of the plane that are the President’s personal or professional space, like the Situation Room and the flying Oval Office.”

“That’s kinda…pointless but cool.”

“You wanna see pointless but cool?” Clint stepped away to a cupboard and rummaged around in it for a second, turning back to toss a small box at Skye.

“Presidential M&Ms.”

“M&Ms are never pointless,” Darcy objected, making grabby hands at Clint until he tossed her a couple packs.

“Speaking of Presidents, there’s a lot of ‘em on this damn plane.”

“Hmmm?” Darcy responded, too busy getting access to her candy to really pay attention, finally whooping with glee when she bested the tabs and got the packet open, pouring a handful out and tossing them back with every sign of enjoyment.

“Presidents, on this plane,” Skye said, her tone suggestive it was obvious.

“There’s only the one, girlie,” Tripp answered with a huff of laughter.

“I don’t just mean Mister Snazzy-Suit," Skye answered, thumbing over her shoulder at the closed door to the office.  "We got all kinds of Presidents in our delightful man candy. We got James Buchanan – terrible President by the way,” Barnes flipped her off, “and Clinton – and you don’t know how much I don’t want to know about cigars or anything else in the Oval - and…well, I guess that’s it. But still, three. Three is a lot!”

Clint smiled. Skye was going to fit in just fine.

*  
“You smuggled her onto the plane!”

“If we’re going to be getting technical, it’s my plane. I am the President remember?”

May glowered at him over her paperwork.

“I know you didn’t want her on the team,” Phil ignored May’s muttered ‘don’t want’ and continued on, “and I know I didn’t consult with you about bringing her on-board, and I know I got the agents to sneak her on – which I shouldn’t have to do given I’m the President here – and that’s on me and not on them, and I apologise for that and will continue to do so at length.”

May’s disapproving silence was deafening, and even though Phil knew it was a trap, he fell into it, hurrying to fill the silence and explain himself to his friend.

“But I think if you give this a chance, you’ll be pleasantly surprised. She’s good at what she does, great even.”

More silence.

“Do you need anything more from me before I hand myself over to the tender mercies of the press?”

May’s only answer was the scratch of her signature across one of the documents in her hand, tossing it down onto Phil’s desk.

“Awesome. Great talk.”

May strode to the door, quickly spying Skye talking with Darcy, Leo Fitz, the young speech writer Coulson had brought in a few months previous, and Tripp, the small group laughing at some unheard joke.

“Skye.”

The young girl span around, eyes wide when she noted who’d called for her.

“Yes?”

May simply stared at her, unblinking.

“Oh, right. You want me to...okay…Am I in trouble?”

Darcy didn’t even try to hide her smirk as she pushed her new friend towards the office, Clint trailing after to stand unobtrusively in the doorway. Just because Coulson trusted the new media consultant, didn’t mean Clint was going to let his guard down.

He was stupid, but he wasn't _stupid._

Holding out her hand to May, Skye introduced herself, only to receive stony silence in return, dropping her hand with an ‘ _okay_ ’ and scrubbing her palm down her sweater.

“We don’t know anything about her! She could be a mole for all we know. Or a sleeper!”

“ _She’s_ right here, ya know. And totally not a mole. Or a sleeper, whatever that is. I’m very wide awake, unless someone screws with my java and then I can’t make any promises as to my continued consciousness.”

May continued as if Skye hasn’t spoken. “She doesn’t understand what is at stake here, Phil.”

Skye squawked in protest, gesticulating wildly as she tried to form words, only managing an affronted ‘hey!’.

“She doesn’t think like us, she’s not ready for this.”

“But she will be,” Coulson argued. “Nobody is truly ready for something, they just have to be given the opportunity to try.”

“Why can’t she try somewhere that _isn’t_ within the White House? A White House she tried to _hack_ , in case you’ve forgotten.”

Not that he’d ever voice the thought, and certainly not in May’s hearing, but Clint had actually been pretty impressed with Skye’s attempts, especially from a laptop she’d won in a bet, some shitty piece of hardware the young woman had modified herself. Or at least, Clint had been impressed after Natasha had filtered Stark’s tech speak into something resembling English, the Cyber Defence Unit head having been far too giddy over the potentially treasonous act.

“Your disapproval is on record. I don’t actually need your permission, she’s working for me.”

“Actually, she’ll be working for me and Pepper.”

"Oh fer cryin' out loud!"

Phil turned to Skye.

“Let’s get this down to brass tacks. Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No!”

“Ever robbed a bank?”

“No.”

“Driven drunk?”

“Should I be offended? I really think I should be offended!”

"Kicked a puppy?"

"Who the hell goes around kicking puppies?!"

Phil grinned, turning back to May, pointing at Skye.

“Barton and Romanoff ran the sort of background checks that the CIA would love to get their hands on. She’s clean as a slightly-tarnished whistle.”

“Hey! Offended now. I would like to go on record as officially offended!”

“Apart from a few youthful indiscretions-”

“That’s my – I was fifteen - that was supposed to be sealed!” Skye poked an accusing finger into Clint’s abs.

“Sealed, schmealed. We’re the Secret freaking Service, and that’s the President of the United States that you’re talking to. Ain’t nothing about you I haven’t discovered, so tone down the indignation.”

“Oh please, what are you going to do to me? Send me to Gitmo? Special rendition?” Clint stared back, unblinking face blank, internally smirking as Skye’s humour drained away, face turning pale.

“You can’t do that, right? Not really…” Clint remained a statue.

“I’m in, right?” Skye whirled around to face Coulson again, and tacked on a hasty ‘sir’. “I mean I got the lanyard and everything.” She held out the ID to May. To anyone who didn’t know the Chief of Staff, they’d have thought the older woman barely even glanced at it, but Clint caught the minuscule twitch of her lips that signaled her amusement at the shitty photo.

“Yeah,” Coulson drawled, “a Koenig lanyard is ironclad as far as employment here goes.”

“Whose side are you on?” Skye contested.

Coulson grinned at Melinda. “She’s in, unless you can provide a reason why not.” He held up a hand to staunch May’s tide of alphabetised counter-arguments, “That I haven’t already anticipated.”

May shut her mouth with a barely audible click, but her expression was murderous.

_Months_ of fun and game.

*  
“First up on the agenda today: The Sons Of Hydra have reared their ugly heads again.” Clint perched himself on the edge of the desk at the front of the briefing room. Spread out in front of him were the heads of the protection shifts for both Hill and Coulson. Next door Sam was giving the same update to the security for various Senators and Congressmen. When he was done, Clint would be heading over to the West Wing for his morning meeting with May and Coulson, keeping them apprised of changes to the President’s security.

He’d expected jeers from his team when he mentioned the terrorist group, but the balled up paper, likely ripped from a briefing packet, aimed at his head was a new one. He caught the projectile with ease and winged it back at Bucky, and if it hadn’t been for Steve reaching across and catching it, he’d have been pleased with how it would have hit Bucky right in the kisser.

“I know, guys. I know. They keep coming back every few years, but we’re still not that much closer to finding them. They’re so fucking shady they don’t need sunscreen, it’s no wonder we can’t get ‘em in the shadows. Cos they’re all dark and it’s dark and…”

“That one got away from you, didn’t it?” Natasha heckled from where she was leaning against the wall.

“Little bit, yeah,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true. These fuckers have gotten way too good at hiding in the dark. If they’re coming back out into the light, we’ve got another chance to catch ‘em before they take out anyone. We’re to liaise with the FBI on this one-”

Another round of jeers met that pronouncement and Clint agreed inside the privacy of his own mind.

“We’re sure they’re actually serious?” Tripp called out, his query meeting the approval of his colleagues. “They’ve been gone for years, we sure this isn’t some copycat scare tactic bullshit?”

“According to Doctor Garner, they’re really fucking serious, unlike about ninety-nine percent of the shit we get.” Clint gestured to another pile on his desk, weighed down with a paperweight, the pile nothing but rambling threats with zero probability of follow-through.

“Garner said that?” Bobbi Morse asked from the back of the room, her disbelief obvious.

“Okay, he didn’t word it quite like that,” Clint conceded with ill-grace. “But, it’s what he meant. Syntax and handwriting and tons of other psych shit match the letters we got years ago. He’s sure it’s the original group. His report is in your folders if you wanna read it, but it essentially boils down to this; these guys are Big Time Crazy and serious as a heart attack.

“It’s also no coincidence this threat is coming now, with the President proposing a Bill to tighten gun control and limit the power of militia groups like this. We gotta be tight, you gotta be on top of your game twenty-four-seven, and ready for anything. A storm is coming guys, I can feel it.”

For all the group might goad their boss, happy to take advantage of his easy-going nature and his trust in them to do their jobs without hesitation, they did all actually respect him and his instincts; if he was taking the threats against the President seriously, so were they.

Pushing himself off the desk, Clint crossed his arms.

“Now, onto the good news. The good news is…”Everyone in the room hung on his every word, several leaning forward in their seat, and more than a few brows furrowing when he shrugged and shook his head. “Scratch that. As ever, there is no good news.” He clapped his hands together.

“You’ve got thirty minutes to look over your folder and familiarise yourself with it. Any updates from Stark over in Cyber and Garner and I’ll let you know immediately. Now, disperse, become someone else's problem. I gotta go brief the Cavalry and Shield.”  
*

Two weeks later Clint rolled his eyes at yet another question, almost identically worded to the hundreds of queries over the years that Coulson has endured, about the First Lady.

Or rather, the lack thereof.

Coulson had been the first unwed President since Cleveland in 1884, and looked to be the first to remain unwed throughout his term, taking a leaf out of Buchanan’s book.

In a way, a dark and selfish unmentionable way, Clint was glad of it. Being in love with his protectee, with the President of the United States, was bad enough. If he’d had to watch the man behind the office holding, kissing, loving someone, someone else, every day for four years or more?

Devastation Station, population – one idiot from Iowa.

There were, of course, all manner of theories as to Coulson’s relationship status, each one trotted out every few weeks, especially if he was seen in public with an attractive individual, even when that other person was on official business. Or married. Or on some occasions on official business and married. Darcy delighted in buying every magazine she could find, the trashier the better, so she could run the gossip past Pepper, and seemed genuinely disappointed when some of the more outlandish theories had her boss laughing until she cried.

The most common were that he was broken-hearted over a past love, that he was engaged in a torrid affair, secretly in love with his Chief of Staff, and lastly that he was in the closet.

So far, despite quite a few of the rags Darcy favored having declared Clint to be gorgeous, even those tabloids that thought Coulson was gay didn’t theorize the President as desperately in love with his Head of Security.

Mores the pity.

The man certainly wasn’t sneaking anyone into the Residence, nor were there any assignations away from the White House – there were no secrets between a President and his protection detail, no matter how sordid it might be.

Clint hated the touring and the fucking bus that Coulson insisted on traveling in, occasionally regaling anyone that would listen with tales of his campaign bus and how Melinda had driven it. Sure, it was a nice bus and all, but it just reminded Clint of the few boyhood school field trips he’d gotten to go on. It was cramped, uncomfortable, and he didn’t even want to get started on the bathroom.

There was a reason why the ladies on the bus – and Skye had fit in well, berating the guys about how pissing into a bottle wasn’t something women had the correct equipment for - insisted on multiple stops along the way.

At reputable establishments with clean ladies rooms.

As much as he hated the Bus, it was nothing on the stops. Different locations, sometimes two or three a day, liaising with local LEOs – most of whom Clint would rate just marginally higher than your average moron and had given him a migraine for the eighteen-ish months that each speech was planned for– countless open air locations, shitty coverage, all too many lines of sight…They all made Clint’s skin crawl and he maintained a moderate headache 24/7.

Worst of all, or maybe best of all because Clint harbored masochistic tendencies at times, was Downtime Coulson. Once he was out of sight of the crush of people out to see him, Coulson would ditch his tie, roll his sleeves to his elbow, pop a couple buttons at his collar and slide on his glasses.

It all had to be against some sort of UN treaty or some shit. Clint was lucky that he didn’t spend the whole day half-hard. As it was he’d started buying pants that were a bit looser and even then Nat might sprain something one day with how hard she rolled her eyes at him. He really never should have told her about how he felt for Coulson.

Then again, she’d probably already known. But he certainly didn’t miss the look Natasha shot his way from her position on the other side of the room.

He ignored it with as ill a grace as was possible when he had to stand still and emotionless.

He could feel her smirk

*

 

After Pepper herded the press away, answering the occasional question and artfully dodging further queries as to Coulson’s relationship status, and thus Coulson was no longer under observation, his concession to the slight downtime was to undo his top button and loosen his tie.

In Coulson suit terms he was half - naked.

Clint couldn’t help himself; he utilised his superior eyesight and stared his fill.

“You’re doing it again.”

“No I’m not,” Clint’s gaze snapped over to where Barnes was smirking at him from his station by the window.

“Coulson pops a button and you pop a hard-on.”

“Shut up! No I don’t,” Clint hissed, shooting a nervous look over at where Coulson and May were running over the rest of the day’s schedule.

“Straight. Up. Creeping.”

“Rogers, control your boyfriend, would you?”

“Not possible,” Steve conceded before heading out with Tripp and Natasha to walk the exfil route, and Barnes waggled his eyebrows.

“Hey, Sam, make him mind me!”

“What?” Sam looked over from the door, glancing between Bucky and Clint. “Oh, hell no.”

“Wilson, come on!”

“When I joined this detail, I told you I’d bring style, professionalism and downright sex appeal," he said, ticking them off on his fingers, leaving the middle one pointing up at Clint.  "Ain’t got no time left over for this referee bullshit.” Sam shrugged. “This?” He gestured between the two men, “not my monkeys, not my circus.” He flashed his brilliant smile at Clint’s outraged expression, and returned to his task, head down to avoid the fallout.

“Traitor.”

**

One _good_ thing about the endless slew of hotels that he had to endure during touring were the beautifully equipped gyms. They were no archery range which would have been perfect, but they would do to allow Clint to work off some of his Downtime Coulson tension, especially as he couldn’t drink on the job, and he was always on the job when they were away from the White House.

He _really_ fucking hated being on the road.

Looping his headphones around his neck, Clint selected an appropriately thumping playlist and headed to the mats to stretch, noting he was the only inhabitant with some relief. Sure he liked his team, even loved a few of them, but practically living with them all day, every day was a bit much for him to cope with. Clint needed alone time, and not just because so much Downtime Coulson kept his left hand busier than when he was a teen.

And it really did, damnit.

So of course, because the universe hated him, he was only fifteen minutes into his solitude when Barnes and Rogers came in, checked the room over with cool professionalism and eagle eyes, before gesturing Coulson into the gym. In the mirror, Clint could just make out the top of Tripp’s head as the other agent guarded the door while the President prepared to get his fitness on.

God-fucking damnit, couldn’t he catch a break?  A single solitary break?

Gym Coulson was even hotter than Downtime Coulson, what with the biceps on show and the flushed cheeks and the glistening skin and…

Abandoning the mats and keeping his eyes on the floor, Clint headed to the single un-mirrored wall and the sole piece of equipment that faced away from the treadmill that Coulson had set himself up on. Resolutely staring at a crack in the wall, and not thinking about Coulson working through some  _interesting_ stretches that had Clint's mind whiting out with possibilities of how they could be translated into a bed, he jumped up and got a solid grip on the bar. He lost himself in the measure of his breath, the ache in his fingers, and the strain in his arms as he completed rep after rep on the chin-up bar, settling into a rhythm, gritting his teeth against the burn in his shoulders that set in after a few reps.

But try as he might, Clint couldn’t quite forget that Coulson was there. Maybe because his brain refused to stop straining to hear Coulson’s footfalls as he ran, still audible even over his pounding music. But just because he couldn’t block the other man out, didn’t mean he couldn’t try. He was a big believer in faking it until he was making it, and he could ignore the itch that ran down his back at the idea of Coulson so close, of him sweaty and gorgeous and so untouchable.

He _could_ ignore it.

He could.

When the burn got to be too much, Clint dropped back to his feet with a wince, shaking his arms out to try and get sensation back in his hands, and maybe relieve some of the pain in his shoulders, before he headed to the furthest machine from Coulson, pretending he didn’t see Barnes’ smirk in the mirror, the other agent running easily along on the treadmill next to Coulson’s while Steve prowled around them both. Adjusting the pin on the weight stack of the cable machine, Clint settled into a comfortable stance, gripped the padded handle and began a set of bicep curls.

Because his arms hadn’t suffered enough.

_He_ hadn’t suffered enough.

Idiot.

Unable to help himself he found his eye-line shifted from the weight stack rising and falling to the mirror to Coulson, like a moth to a flame. As always when working out, Coulson was wearing a sleeveless black shirt, his surprisingly broad shoulders and toned arms on full display, sweat shining on his skin. Clint’s mouth watered at the thought of tracing the older man’s Ranger tattoo with his tongue, the ink stark against the freckled skin of Coulson’s bicep. To watch his effortless running, to watch his toned body, it wasn’t hard to see the soldier that hid behind the suit, the man who’d defended his country with dagger as well as pen.

It was _really_ fucking hot.

And _really_ fucking untouchable.

Which was _really_ fucking unfair.

Why did the guy that Clint fell for have to be the most powerful man in the world?

There was unattainable and there was _unattainable_.

So he had to shut it down. Had to stop the reel of fantasies of Coulson bending him over the desk in the Oval Office, of Phil spreading his thighs over Clint’s lap and sliding down onto his cock, of how the man would look spread out on Clint’s bed, panting and happy…

He _had_ to shut it down because only madness lay down that road and Clint suspected he was already as far down that road as he ever needed to go. It was simple; he couldn’t have Coulson, so he had to stop the straight up creeping that Barnes was maybe right about, and get his head on straight.

And if it were that easy, he’d have done it by now.

It had been so easy at first.

Years ago when Clint had first been introduced to then President-Elect Coulson, he’d noted the other man as good-looking and seemingly as genuine and personable as he had appeared on the campaign circuit. That’d really been it. Clint had protected attractive people before and never been tempted once. Over time, as Coulson relaxed around his security detail and settled into his new role, Clint had discovered the man’s nerdier side, his love of collectibles and how his face lit up when he talked about a piece he owned and his desire to hunt down other items, something he enjoyed but that had taken a back seat since he’d decided to run for the Presidency. Seeing the man so relaxed and happy, even if only for a few minutes at a time, as they walked from one room to another, had warmth blooming slowly in Clint’s chest, but he’d had a handle on it. Even after the pride and joy of Coulson’s collection, and life, had arrived at the White House, he’d just about kept a lid on the whole thing. The gorgeous, red classic corvette named Lola had led to discovering Coulson elbow deep in her engine, ancient shirt smeared with oil, corded forearms straining as he tightened a nut and Clint could have gone mad from the sight. 

It’d all been tempting. So fucking tempting, but no more than that.

Then the bastard had gone and _respected_ Clint’s opinions, respected that he knew his job, deferred to Clint’s security concerns in a way that previous protectees never had.

That right there was the problem. Respect wasn’t something Clint had encountered much in his life, and especially not from superiors.

Certainly not from the fucking President of The United States.

Clint fought against the four letter ‘l’ word. Wanting to fuck Coulson, that he was okay with – his boss was hot and Clint wasn’t going to apologise if occasionally he imagined it was Coulson’s hand on his dick instead of his own, or what Coulson’s smart tongue would feel like curled around the head, or how it’d feel to be inside him.

Which was probably treason.

But wanting to just sit and talk with the guy, learn his favorite things, curl up together, spending time together, to be trusted with working on Lola, to be allowed to _drive_ Lola, Phil in the frontseat, carefree and laughing…

That had fucked him up for a while.

A _really_ long while.

At least he hadn’t done something stupid like confide in his best friend.

Oh. Wait.

Stupid Natasha. Stupid vodka. Stupid, stupid heart.

At least he hadn’t had to facilitate a conveyor belt of hook-ups or hidden lovers, or dealt with a womanising protectee like Rogers had when on Senator Stern’s detail. In the four years since he’d met the man, Clint hadn’t seen hide nor hair of so much as a single date. Some days that made it easier – that it wasn’t that Coulson wasn’t interested in him specifically, he just appeared uninterested in general, clearly having more important things to do than get his rocks off.

When he’d finally owned up to his feelings - and one motherfucker of a hangover thanks to Nat - Clint’d thought about switching details, but the thought of being a part of Hill’s team squished those thoughts pretty much dead. Hill was a phenomenal VP, but on a personal level she and Clint had never gotten along.

So instead he sucked it up.

Which was a terrible choice of words.

The burn in his biceps brought Clint out of his musing and he dropped the weights back to the stack with a heavy clang. He had no idea how many reps he’d completed but from the trembling in his arms and ache in his elbow, it’d been more than enough.

He was going to feel like complete shit in the morning.

He felt like shit _now_ , for so many reasons.

His eye-line had, during the last however-long-it’d-been, migrated to Coulson’s ass, apparently following the man’s move from treadmill to free weights, because clearly Clint had no control over anything anymore. The chances of that going unnoticed by Barnes and Rogers were virtually nil and while Steve might have been too polite to mention it, his asshole boyfriend was another story.

Letting go of the handles, and forcing his gaze down to the fucking floor, where it should have stayed, traitor that it was, Clint shook out his arms and winced as abused muscles sent him emphatic ‘ _fuck you, asshole_ ’ notes. He answered Barnes’ too-knowing snort of amusement by flipping him off. Even that hurt. He put his hands on his hips and let his head hang heavy while he panted for breath.

He really should just cut his losses and head back upstairs, or even just run around the block for a while, but rather than head for the door like he should, Clint found himself straightening up and gravitating to the leg-press, conveniently located directly opposite the free weights.

Weak masochist, thy name is Clint Barton.

But he had an idea.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.  Maybe if he just let the thoughts run their course, he'd get it out of his system for a while.

Clint gave up any pretense he was looking elsewhere and instead avidly watched as Coulson completed rep after rep, taking in the broad shoulders and straight spine, Coulson’s form perfect.

Coulson had worked up a sweat, his shirt sticking to his chest, a peek of hair just visible in the deep V. As a result, Clint couldn’t have told anyone the weight he shoved the pin into, beyond knowing it kicked up one hell of a strain in his thighs as he pushed. He let himself get lost in thoughts of peeling the shirt over Coulson’s head and licking over that broad chest, how that hair would feel against his palms, how sweet his nipples would taste…

Fuck, this had been a bad idea. 

A shitty, _shity_ , idea, and Clint really needed to get the hell out of there. Creeping on his boss was fucked up enough, but sitting there, staring at the man while hard as a rock?

This was why he didn't have the bright ideas about anything other than tactics and weaponary.  He really needed to remember that.

Because now he was sitting in a room with his two subordinates and the President of the United States with a hard-on and no way of explaining that away.

He was a fucking idiot!

Time to get the fuck outta Dodge.

*

Phil hated working out in a gym, much preferring to head outside, hiking or running, or talking some of his team or detail into a game of basketball, but he knew how much of a headache that was on the road and he was well aware how much his team already hated these engagements. Asking them to find and clear a court for an hour or two just seemed too much. It wasn’t like spontaneity and he were anything more than nodding acquaintances now, anyway.

But something about this whole trip had him on edge and restless, jumping at shadows when normally he knew the dark held nothing scarier than himself. So that had been his goal in coming down to the gym that night: complete and total exhaustion. It was well known that the leader of the free world had only a slight familiarity with the concept of sleep, but lately even his usual four to five hours a night seemed well beyond him.

He knew why, but there was no way he was voicing it.  Especially not if May was nearby.  She had enough blackmail material from their teenage years.

She knew anyway.  And Phil knew she knew he knew she knew.  All of which made his head hurt and made him feel fifteen again, which was occasionally a nightmare of his.

Then he’d turned the corner to find Clint already in the gym. For a split second he thought the other man was simply taking over a part of the detail, but when he’d gone out of his way to not speak to Phil, Steve or Bucky, it’d been clear the man had been after some alone time. But Phil had already stated his plan, and wasn’t about to turn around and leave. Besides, Clint had been shirtless and flushed, and suddenly sleep was the last thing Phil had wanted.

The run had done nothing to quell the itchy, too-small feel to his skin or tire him out, Phil all too aware of his Head of Security at his back, his tremendous shoulders and biceps straining as he lifted his chin to the bar over and over, the grunt as he dropped to the ground and the rhythmic clank of the weights even and controlled, rep after rep. Under the guise of checking his form, Phil was able to watch Clint, the mirror providing an unobstructed view. He didn’t know how the senior agent wasn’t a ball of pain from the sets he was doing; if Phil had attempted it, his arms would have been falling off. Not that he was complaining of course, not if it meant he was getting to see Clint’s magnificent arms flex and the intense concentration on his face.

Ten steps. That was all it would take. Just drop the weights and take ten steps, close his hands around Clint’s sweaty nape and kiss him…

He was pulled from his thoughts when Clint abruptly stood up, grabbing his shirt off the ab roller as he passed it, holding it a little too-nonchalantly in front of himself to be real as he crossed behind the mats heading to the exit, nodding tightly to the other agents and Coulson froze. There was no way he had seen what he had as Clint had reached for the shirt. 

No chance.

It had to be a trick of the light or a fold in the fabric as Clint stretched, or a fevered mind drunk on watching Clint flex and sweat for nearly an hour seeing what he so wanted to see.

  
Because there was no way that his Head of Security had an erection while in a gym with him.

*

“Night, man.” Tripp clapped a heavy hand on Clint’s shoulder, before grimacing and scrubbing his hand on a dry portion of Clint’s shirt, hastily pulled on as he'd left the gym.

Clint held his shirt in front of his groin, angling his body away from his team-mate. “All good?”

“All good,” Tripp confirmed with a grin.

“Brother has it bad,” Tripp muttered as he watched Clint walking away, shaking his head. How Clint thought he’d hidden his attraction to Coulson from everybody, he’d never know; it might as well have been blazoned on a billboard.

How Clint didn’t know that Coulson was watching him back…

“Pair of unobservant idiots. Hawkeye, my ass,” he muttered as he settled back into position, calmly keeping watch, thrilled that he wasn’t sharing a room with Barton. He almost felt sorry for Wilson.

But only almost.

*

It was unprofessional. Clint knew it was beyond unprofessional to have his hand wrapped around his dick, images of his boss on his knees in his mind, while essentially on the clock but fuck, if he was gonna get through another day of Coulson being powerful and commanding while wearing half a suit, he needed to ease some fucking tension.

He only had a few minutes before Wilson got back from his run but it was all he’d need given how he’d barely made it all the way back to his room before giving in to his arousal and shoving his hand down his shorts, his fantasies of Coulson a reel in his head. Coulson in his nerdy basketball clothes, or better yet Coulson playing on the ‘skins’ team and shirtless. In a fair world, Coulson’s knee length shorts and knee braces should look ridiculous and yet to Clint he was downright fuckable. Like all Clint would need to do would be to press up behind him, push the elastic waistband down over the swell of Coulson’s ass, spread his cheeks and slid his cock into the crease. Just reach around and take Coulson’s cock in hand, the other man turning his head to take Clint’s mouth in a filthy kiss.

Over the last couple years, Clint had gotten really good at taking himself in hand, hot and thick, hardening further as the images in his head morphed into a particular favourite fantasy; Clint walking into the Oval Office, falling to his knees at Coulson’s feet, unzipping him and taking him into his mouth, curling his hands possessively around Coulson’s hips and holding him down as Coulson gasped above him, Clint’s own cock hard in his pants.

Spreading his thighs against the strain of his short’s waistband, Clint pumped his cock, biting his lip to stop from groaning at the friction. Gripping his cock a little tighter, Clint fumbled his shorts down further, palming his balls and rolling them in his palm.

“Fuck!”

Hips snapping, Clint fucked his fist, a slew of nonsense spilling forth as he let his mind wander again, losing himself in the fantasy.

_He lifted one of Coulson’s hands from where it was curled into a fist on his thigh, and placed it onto his head, straining to look up the length of Coulson’s body, up the perfectly pressed shirt and silk tie and to the lax lips and dazed eyes._

_Coulson wasn’t stupid; he got the idea and tangled his fingers into Clint’s hair, gently guiding the movement of Clint’s head, tender even in Clint’s fantasies._

_Coulson shifted in his seat, sliding lower and spreading his thighs wide, giving Clint more room to work, instantly rewarded by Clint dipping his head down and tonguing the length of his cock._

_“Don’t tease,” Coulson ordered, pressing more firmly on the back of Clint’s head hips hitching a little against Clint’s hold as Clint opened to take him deeper. Clint could feel himself hardening further, rolling his hips, seeking friction. He finally let Coulson take what he wanted, releasing his hold on the man’s hips and encouraged him to fuck his mouth, sliding his hand around to the small of Coulson’s back and pressing, urging him to move._

_“Come on,” he rasped after he’d pulled off. “You’re not going to hurt me. I want you to.” He licked the head of Coulson’s cock to watch him shiver, not missing the way the man’s breathing sped up. Testing a theory, Clint dropped his hand to the front of his pants, cupping the straining shaft, groaning at the sensation, bucking into it, watching Coulson’s gaze home in on the show he was providing._

_“Show me.” The rasp in Phil’s voice, like he’d been the one to get his throat fucked, was doing things to Clint._

_One-handed, Clint unbuckled his belt, the metal clanking as he flicked open the button and lowered the zipper. No underwear blocked Clint from drawing his cock free, pre-come already slick on the head. He winked up at Coulson as he gave himself a couple hard pulls._

_“Like this? This what you want to see? Me with my cock in hand?”_

_“Do you ever shut up?”_

_“Only when your cock is down my throat.”_

_“In that case.” Coulson pressed against the back of Clint’s neck, pushing his impudent mouth back towards his cock, a look of challenge on his face. Clint’s lips split around the head, tongue teasing the slit before swirling around the head. Holding Clint’s head just where he wanted it and thrusting into that smart mouth in short, hard thrusts, careful to not go too deep, Coulson was torn between watching his cock disappear and Clint fucking his fist._

_Clint’s hand flew faster, his grip tight as he drank in the gorgeous needy sounds that Coulson couldn’t hold back as he reduced the President to raw desire._

_“Shit. Shit, gonna come.”_

_Coulson was pulling him off his dick and up off his knees, tugging him to straddle him, mouth latching onto Clint’s neck, hands on Clint’s ass, fingers sliding into his crease to play with his hole as they thrust and heaved together._

And Clint was coming, covering his hand as he pulled himself through it, shuddering at the over-stimulation.

On the other side of the bathroom door, Clint could just hear the snick of the electronic lock disengaging and the clunk of the handle as Sam pushed his way inside.

“Honey, I’m home!”

So much for after-glow.

Clint grunted out an answer as he washed up at the little basin, the water chillingly cold and stared at himself in the mirror, jabbing a finger at his reflection.

“Pull yourself together, Barton.”

**

With everyone back on Air Force One and the press relegated back to their own cabin where Clint secretly believed they should be sealed permanently, the atmosphere up front was a lot more relaxed. Fast paced and busy as fuck, but relaxed, and Coulson even had a minute to talk to Clint about the basketball game the night before, the pair trading barbs about their respective teams chances, unaware of Skye’s undivided attention.

Shutting the office door behind him, leaving Coulson and Potts to their meeting, Clint walked straight smack into an amused Skye.

"So, you and P.C. You guys totally doing it, right? I knew the National Enquirer wasn’t complete shit. He is having an affair with a staff member."

_'Shit. Shit. Shit. Abort.'_

Clint chose to go with what people always assumed of him; he acted dumb.

"You read the National Enquirer?" He plastered an appropriately horrified expression on his face, his tone dripping with disdain. “And who the hell is P.C?”

Skye rocked back on her heels. "You know."

"What?"

"El Jefe in there,” she thumbed over her shoulder at Coulson’s office. “You guys are totally doing it, right? There was enough heat back there to blow a hole in the plane."

Several heads turned towards them as the words 'blow' and 'hole' filtered into the surrounding people’s consciousness, overriding concurrent conversations or work.

Grabbing Skye by the elbow, Clint dragged her down the aisle and into an alcove where the Koenigs ruled supreme. Shooing them out, Clint gestured for Skye to sit on the small couch.

"Little tip, rookie. I know you’ve only been with us a couple months but here’s a free tip: people get real twitchy when they hear the words 'blow up' and 'plane'. Especially on Air Force One."

"Sorry." She at least had the grace to look repentant. "That’s my bad. But I'm right, aren’t I? You guys members of the Mile High Club? Have you had sex on this plane? Is this the craziest place you guys have done it?" Skye looked to wear she was sitting and lifted her hand from the leather with a grimace, wiping it down the front of Clint’s jacket. "Never mind, I don't think I want to know."

"We've not had sex on this plane, or any other. Or at all! We're not together, we're not anything."

Looking gobsmacked at his denial, Skye frowned. "But you want to be, right? If I'm right give me a sign."

Clint said nothing, utilising the resting bitch face that had been bestowed upon him. He still maintained that it was simply the unfortunate nature of his face, but Tripp had the rest of the detail on his side, the bastard.

"You're being all inscrutable and not giving me a sign, but I think that is a sign. I’m totally right!” Skye looked delighted, her smile wide. “I was! Oh, this is good! P.C. is getting himself some.”

“Skye. Stop.” Clint’s voice had dropped an octave, taking on the tone he used when he ordered his team around, teeth clenched. “Just fucking stop.”

The mirth fell from Skye’s face, mouth dropping open.

“Oh God…Clint I’m sorry. I didn't... You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Is there a part of ‘stop’ you don’t understand?”

“Why haven’t you done anything about it?”

“Because in the history of shitty ideas, and trust me I’ve had my fair share and most of someone else’s, that would be crossing the line to such a degree the line would be a tiny fucking dot far, far behind me.”

“He totally digs you.”

“Please, Skye. Just stop.”

“You really don’t see it? How do you not see it?! He gets all dreamy when he talks to you, freaking doe-eyed and he definitely wants you to be getting him all untidy-like.”

“This is my job, Mary-Sue. My life. Leave it the fuck alone. It can’t happen and it won’t happen.”

*

The moment Clint entered the enormous hangar that housed the two planes that acted as Air Force One, the hairs on the back of his neck pricked up and a curl of foreboding wrapped around his gut. All through his life, from the farmhouse, to the military to the Secret Service, Clint had always known when shit was gonna go down and his sixth sense had saved his ass more times than he wanted to admit.

It was screaming the house down.

“Spidey senses,” he grit out to Natasha, already closing his hand around the grip of his Sig as Sam shut the door behind them, eyes roving around the brightly lit space and out the open doors to the plane resting on the runway. He cursed the darkness for how it allowed the illumination in and around Air Force One to light it all up like a firework.

It also illuminated the complete lack of Presidential motorcade. Not a single vehicle was waiting for them.

It was supposed to have just been a quick stroll. There’d been an issue with Air Force One, the Koenigs scurrying around a crew of mechanics like clucking hens as they kept watch on the work that was being completed, something deeply technical that Clint didn’t understand.

Even on a plane as luxurious as Air Force One, the upcoming thirteen hour flight wasn’t going to be much fun and Coulson had requested a walk around the hangar to stretch his legs, get twenty minutes of fresh air and to enjoy the last of the sunset that was painting the cloudy sky a gorgeous array of rich oranges and pinks.

Half of the detail had remained with the plane, keeping guard over it. With the plane resting on the tarmac it was visible for all to see and vulnerable the entire time regardless of its considerable military modifications. Especially with the increased threat of weaponised drones. Clint much preferred dealing with the aircraft and protecting those on-board when it was airborne, where its incredible array of defense tactics made it far harder to target.

It wasn’t until Coulson had veered a sharp left as they strode around the back wall and through a rear door into the hangar to avoid the freezing drizzle that had started that it had all gone to shit.

A bullet whistled past his left ear and embedded itself into the wall.

Time slowed.

Clint span around, weapon already raised, safety off, noting from the corner of his eye the enormous bodies of Barnes and Rogers launching themselves onto one target: Coulson. Tripp, Natasha and Wilson took up new positions that closed any gap making it impossible to see Coulson at all, guarding him with their lives. No chance any fuckers were getting Coulson through them. Clint would tackle the man to the ground and lie on top of him to keep him safe if it came to it, though no other weapons were on display.

A man stood in the wide hangar door. He was tall and slender, with sandy hair and was wearing, strangely enough, a smart three piece suit as he sauntered into the hangar. In his right hand he held the handgun responsible for the hole in the wall.

Smashing his shoulder into the door they’d entered by, Tripp hissed an expletive when it didn’t give, the faint rattling of something metallic clinking against the door on the outside. “Don’t want to alarm anyone, but were chained in.”

Even though the guy was walking into a wall of fire-power, he seemed unhurried, relaxed without a trace of fear on his face.

“Hey!” Barnes yelled. “That’s more than close enough.”

The man only smiled in response, continuing to advance on the group.

“Stop, or I will shoot you.”

The man stopped, but frowned quizzically. “That would not be of any use, gentlemen. Cut off one head, and two more will grow in its place.”

“What the fuck?” Sam whispered.

“I’m here to offer you a choice. The President comes with me now, willingly. Or I’ll have to take him by force.”

“You can’t seriously think we’re just going to hand over the President to you.”

“If you refuse, I will have to show you how serious we are. I will be forced to try an alternate approach.” Sure enough, one hand disappeared into his jacket.

“Hey, hands where I can see ‘em, buddy!” Barnes barked, hands rock solid around his Sig’s grip as he aimed between the guy’s eyes when he made no indication of stopping.

Bucky squeezed the trigger and the guy dropped, gun skittering away across the tarmac, Barnes kept his eyes on the body while the others looked past him to the open doors, guns ready, straining to hear past the drumming of the rain on the hangar’s metal roof.

In the seconds that passed there was nothing. No movement from the body, no movement outside other than the dance of a few wet leaves in the wind as they skittered in through the open door.

“Where are our guys? Where’s the fucking cavalry?” Tripp asked.

It took all of Clint’s training not to break away from his surveying of the landscape outside the hangar as he took a few steps to  
his right to get a greater idea of what was happening outside. “Unless one of them got word out, or someone on board gets to a radio, they ain’t coming.”

“What?” Coulson asked, Barton hearing him try to shuffle forward, trying to break Rogers’ hold on him.

“Can’t see a single car out there, but I can see some bodies on the ground.”

“They dead?”

“I’m good, sir. But I’m not Superman, even I can’t tell that from here.”

That feel too easy to anyone else?” Rogers asked, nobody lowering their weapons.

“I got skills,” Barnes defended.

“Our cars are gone, our men are gone. Our only way out is past him and he had every opportunity to kill us but he didn’t.”

“I, for one, don’t buy that he took out our entire team and stashed our cars somewhere all on his own while we got our walk on,” Sam added.

“Rats in a trap,” Wilson said. “To get out we’d have to go past him and he was reaching for something in his vest.”

“Explosive?” Coulson asked.

“Maybe,” Sam answered. “Anyone else get the Hydra thing?”

“You think this is the Sons of Hydra?”

“I’d like to take this moment to point out that I am absolutely not gloating that I was right,” said Clint. “But once this OK Corral sitch is over, I will be gloating. Told you that they were serious.”

“Is this really the time?” Natasha asked.

“Shhh,” Clint ordered.

The hangar was quiet around then, but Clint’s keen eyes flit over every surface, years of training honing his skills to take in everything in seconds, searching for their best chance of cover. Someone was out there. A lot of someones, and he was sure as hell not a one of them was on their side.

Their side…

“He was a mechanic,” he hissed.

“What?”

“Our would-be assassin. He was a mechanic, been with us for years.”

“We got a traitor?”

“We got something.”

“What about the plane?”

“She looks shut up tight. May’s on-board with a freaking armoury, she’ll keep everyone safe.”

“Give me a gun,” Coulson ordered.

“That’s real funny, sir,” Clint replied.

“Not kidding.”

“That’s what makes it so hilarious.”

“Come out, come out wherever you are.” Nobody had stepped into the doorway, but the voice was clear; whoever was out there was standing just outside.

Clint heard Coulson’s breath hitch and he whispered, “John Garrett? But he’s dead.”

“Great,” Sam muttered. “Join the Secret Service, serve your country, see the world, fight fucking zombies.”

“Not coming out, Phil? That’s okay, we’ll come in.”

“We?” Natasha muttered.

“Bring it,” Barnes ground out.

“Barnes,” said Clint, “you’re a walking armoury, arm the President please.”

“Knew you’d see my side eventua-”

Five men stepped into the hangar, each decked out in full body armour and helmet, each with P-90s slung around their necks with side-arms strapped to both thighs, making one thing abundantly clear.

The agents were embarrassingly outgunned.

“Hey fellas,” the man waved. The newcomer was around six foot and in his fifties, a strange expression twisting his features.

“Stop right there,” Natasha warned, aiming at the man’s throat.

“Oh, I’m sorry little lady, I didn’t see you there,” he leered at Natasha, seemingly unconcerned by her warning, though he did  
come to a stop, the others fanning out to his sides, their hands on their weapons where the lead man’s were not. “Don’t suppose many guys don’t notice you. My, my, Phil you do surround yourself with the prettiest of people.”

“What the hell do you want, Garrett?”

“Oh, you are in that human puppy-pile.” Garrett had a disturbingly tranquil smile on his face, his eyes wide and bright. Clint had seen that smile before and was smart enough to be scared shitless by it; John Garrett, whoever he was, was light-years over the insanity event-horizon and still accelerating. That sort of insanity was uncompromising and unpredictable; no way were they talking their way out of this.

“Shouldn’t there be shit in here,” Tripp muttered. “Benches or tools to hide behind.”

“Or throw,” Sam continued.

“There’s a plane,” Barnes suggested, jerking his head towards the other aircraft that flew as Air Force One, its great bulk taking  
up nearly half of the hangar. But it would be largely unhelpful; if they were able to get over to it, the only cover it really provided was its landing gear.

But it was their only choice.

“It’s been a few years, Phil, so I’m sure you’ve got questions. I’m going to catch you up on a few things. You,” he wrapped a hand around the grip of his gun and waved the barrel towards the cluster, “left me for dead and I lost years of my life in a god-forsaken pit being tortured. While I was hanging from a pipe having my toenails removed, you got a mansion and that pretty plane one of my boys is taking over.”

“Your boy?” Natasha asked, shifting imperceptibly closer to her left, shutting Coulson further away from where he was trying to press between her and Steve.

“Oh yes, you see your boss here isn’t the only one with pretty people that are heavily armed and mine are deeply concerned as to the direction the current administration is heading.”

“He wasn’t that pretty,” Barnes goaded, jerking his chin towards the body that lay between the two factions.

“Pierce? He was a means to an end. Incredible tactical mind, but otherwise useless and such delusions of grandeur… But my little protégée on-board,” he made a tutting sound, “sorry about Melinda, Phil. She’ll be missed, I’m sure.”

Sam huffed a laugh which drew the attention of the man to Garrett’s left, a tall, bulky man that would have been attractive in any other circumstances, two bandoliers straining across the chest of his armor.

“Something funny about that?”

“Hilarious. On that plane is what you get when you cross an Ultimate Fighter with a wet cat. Your boy is dead, or wishing he was.”

“Aren’t you all sassy and full of life? Which is more than can be said, incidentally, for your little red shirts outside,” Bandoliers jeered, the man’s mouth twisting into a smirk at Sam’s expression.

The man to Garrett’s right drew Natasha’s attention by laughing. “If someone was alive on that plane, wouldn’t they have raised the alarm by now? Or come help you?”

“No one is coming to help you. So either hand over the President or prepare to die; Hydra doesn’t take prisoners,” Bandoliers raised a hand and waggled his fingers at them, a sarcastic good-bye.

“Man, shut the fuck up,” Sam ordered.

“Y’know,” Garrett continued, “I was actually happy when you took office. I actually thought you might understand the need for balance. That you’d lead the world where it needed to go; we were teetering so perfectly on the knife edge between chaos and  
order, and then you disappointed me, Phil.”

“Sorry about that,” Coulson growled sarcastically.

“I’m just being honest, Phil.”

“No, you’re being a psychopath.”

“That’s just hurtful, Phil. We were friends.”

“I’m regretting that now.”

Reaching out, Barnes rested a hand on Coulson’s shoulder where the older man was crouched beside him. “Sir, if you could not take a leaf out of Steve’s book and instead not goad the insane man into killing us all, that’d be great.”

“Whether you come with me now, or after I kill every one of your precious bodyguards is merely a detail. It changes nothing. I am the future of this country, I am its savior.”

“You’re something alright,” Tripp retorted.

“Okay, I’ve had enough of world domination for dummies,” Clint whispered. “Natasha, the lights, then we make for the rear landing gear.”

As one, Clint and Natasha shifted their aim from the group to the two massive fuse boxes mounted on the eastern and northern walls and fired.

The hangar was plunged into darkness.

Out in the dark Clint heard the soft snick of a cocked gun and he reached out, pushing Steve to his knees and the bullet that should have taken his head off whistled harmlessly overhead, another biting into the tarmac a foot to his right.

“Stay low.”

Crowding around Coulson, the group ran as fast as they could across the space separating them from their only cover, Tripp, Sam and Natasha providing cover fire as the went. Clint forced Coulson down and entirely behind one of the immense wheels, ducking down in front of him and shucking his bulletproof vest with practised ease, bullying the President into it when Coulson tried to force it away.

With Coulson far more protected than he had been, Clint focused on Hydra. While the agents were largely in shadow, the enemy was not, and they’d suffer all the more for it; a firefight was where Clint fucking lived.

There was only his heartbeat and the tide of his breath, both slow, both steady. Just like his hands as he span out and around the wheel, firing into the dark, leaning back against the tyre as he heard the grunt that meant his aim had been true. Return fire exploded around them.

“Kill shot would have been nice, asshole,” Sam grumbled, firing his own shots.

“I have to do your whole job for you?”

“Steve, gimme a boost.”

Without question, Steve handed his gun to Natasha, the other bodyguard firing just as proficiently with her left hand as her right, and dropped to a knee, lacing his hands together for Barnes to step into, lifting the former sniper with ease, Barnes clambering further up the tyre to line up his shot over the top of it. Just as they had always been in the army, Barnes shot was true, the tell-tale sound of a body collapsing to the floor audible over the gunfire that had been reduced by one.

“That won’t work again,” he said as he dropped down, sounding smug, “but I got the fucker.” As predicted a round of gunfire came over the top of the tyres, seriously shortening the life of anyone stupid enough to try shooting from there again.

Clint dropped into a crouch. “You doing okay?” he yelled into the Coulson’s ear.

“Peachy.”

“Stay low and still.”

“Where do you expect me to go?”

“Knowing you, sir, straight for Bucky’s secondary weapon and pulling a John McClane. That shit’ll only get you killed.”

“Look pretty damn cool though.”

“I’d rather an alive President than a cool one. Besides, I’d lose my job. I got a dog to keep in the luxurious pizza-heavy lifestyle he is accustomed to, y’know?”

Clint cranked his head around to check on his team. Steve, having regained his gun from Natasha, and Bucky were flanking the  
President, Bucky firing through the space between the tyres. Sam and Tripp were back-flatted on the tyre next to theirs, covering their flank and Natasha was crouched by Coulson’s side.

More bullets sprayed the floor around them, shards of concrete flying up to slice into their legs, others still bedding into the tyres.

“Fury’s gonna be pissed,” Clint stated as another barrage of bullets ricocheted off the fuselage. At least one of the shooters was piss-poor with his weapon, which Clint was planning on sniggering over later.

If he survived.

“Forget Fury,” Tripp replied. “We’ll get another ‘wasting taxpayer money on fancy toys’ lecture from Skye.”

Staying low, inching to the edge of the tyre, Clint nudged the barrel of his gun around it, peering around the corner for a microsecond before ducking back in, adjusting his aim a tiny amount and squeezing the trigger.

Another body fell, a dark and lethal smile on Clint’s face.

Two down.

Three to go and limited ammunition.

Abruptly the firing stopped and once more Garrett’s voice rang out across the hangar.

“I had some questions for you, Phil. But I guess I lost my train of thought.”

“Lost a hell of a lot more than that.”

“You only say that, Agent Barton, because you are blind. You cannot see what I have. You do not have the clarity of mind that such wonder gives you.”

“You remember that speech the General used to give us, Phil? About how one man can accomplish anything once he realises he can be more? When he can make himself more? Well, I am now.”

“Wha-? A part of something more, John. A part,” Coulson yelled out before Clint could slap a hand over his mouth.  
“Can you not let them know you’re still alive, and exactly where you currently sheltering in the hopes of not dying, because I’d appreciate it!”

John huffed a laugh. “Is that what he used to say? Well, shit. Oh well. Guess I’ve kinda committed to this path now.” As suddenly as the firing had ceased, it started again, the remaining men no longer fucking around as they sprayed the area with bullets, all brute force and no finesse.

They weren’t hoping to take Coulson alive anymore.

“Last mag,” Barnes stated quietly as he reloaded, squeezing off a round that resulted in a scream from across the hangar.

“Me too,” Sam added.

“Don’t wanna add to the misery, but I’m almost out,” Tripp got in his two cents.

“We’re fucked. Blow me Grim Reaper,” Barnes muttered.

“Well, there’s an image,” Steve drawled.

“We’re fucked, doll. We’re running low on ammo, no idea how many more might actually be out there, no cars-”

The roar that interrupted the hail of bullets was so loud and so rough that Clint wanted to flatten himself to the hangar wall and hide as he waited for fiery death. For a crazed moment, he almost thought May had decided to taxi Air Force One into the hangar.

Except there was no incoming plane. Instead, what appeared to be a vintage rust bucket that looked vaguely like a limo was hurtling towards them. It weaved as the tyres fought to find grip on the smooth hangar floor as it shot straight towards one of the shooters, the man turning too late, not given enough time to raise his gun at the shooter.

The crunch as the radiator smashed into the man’s legs was sickening, his body like a rag-doll as it was thrown up and over the car, landing behind it head first, rolling to a stop and lying still. The car kept coming, the driver throwing it into a spin.

“Mack?” Tripp yelled

“The mechanic?” Barnes asked.

“Get in!” The man yelled.

“The last mechanic that came in that door wasn’t friendly,” Sam had his gun aimed directly at the man’s head, the mechanic lifting both hands from the wheel.

“I’m not with them,” he yelled over the sound of gunfire, ducking down as one of the rear windows exploded.  
“Oh, well, our mistake then. Just volunteer to take POTUS far, far away. What could be wrong in that?” Clint didn’t need to glance over to know that Steve’s face was twisted in a sarcastic smile.

“He’s my friend,” Tripp said. “I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s a good guy. I trust him.”

“You’re sure, ‘cos the nutcase over there was a ‘friend’ too.”

“I’d bet my life on it.”

“You’re betting the President’s life on it.”

“He’s clean, I know it.”

Clint grimaced. It wasn’t like they had a lot of choice or any time left.

Clint swore he could feel the air shifting as a round sped past his side.

He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Breathed in again and cocked his head, feeling the breeze that’d kicked up through the hangar door, the interference it would cause and exhaled. He aimed his gun in the direction of the last spate of bullets and pulled the trigger.

The thud of a heavy body stumbling backwards into the wall was followed by a choked off grunt, but the man didn’t go down.  
“Time to go, sir.”

“Let me cover us.”

“You’re too valuable, sir. Never going to happen. I’m expendable, you are not.”

Coulson opened his mouth to argue but only got so far as ‘Bull-’ before Clint was grabbing the back of his jacket and pulling him along. Covered by Barnes, Rogers and Natasha, Clint threw the most powerful man in the world head-first into the car as Tripp and Sam tried to distract the remaining Hydra shooters.

One of his team smacked into his back, sending Clint in after Coulson as Natasha fired off another couple of rounds at their attacker, a cut-off cry in the dark suggesting she’d hit her mark, before she leapt into the front seat.

Mack didn’t wait for any shit like shutting the door, instead dropping the peddle to the metal, the tires screeching as he shot off like a bullet, the door swinging shut as the car fishtailed as it headed for the hangar door. Clint had a vague thought of being glad the hangar had been large enough for Mack’s handbrake turn; doing a K-turn in the middle of a firefight would have been fucking ridiculous.

And fatal. Their chariot was very much not bulletproof.

Clint didn’t know what was under the vintage junker’s hood, but whatever it was, it was where Mack had started his restoration project – even from his position with his head down he could feel they were moving like shit off a shovel; the normally smooth runway felt like the surface of the moon as the car bounced over tiny dips and cracks in the tarmac and for a moment he was concerned the whole damn thing would shake apart around him.

A crash above him had him hunkering down further over the President, bracketing the man’s body with his own, arms laced over the back of his head, pushing his face into the leather seat with enough force to suffocate him if kept up for too long. The read windshield shattered, glass raining down around them, the bullet that did the damage burying itself deep in Mack’s headrest.

“You okay?” he screamed out.

“Some fuckers just shot my car, you should see the inside of my beautiful plane, a terrifying woman is holding a gun to my head in case I’m a traitor, another terrifying woman on the plane just took out a guy twice her size and people are trying to kill us. I am not okay. I just wanted the quiet life. Restore my car, work on a plane, serve my country in a way that didn’t involve death and destruction.”

“Sorry,” Coulson mumbled into the leather, turning his head to gasp for air, Clint lifting some of the pressure on his head.  
“Kinda running outta runway here, guys. Where am I going?” Mack asked, their speed not decreasing at all.

“I’ll direct you,” Natasha said as they veered off the runway and onto the grass to the side, the ride only getting worse.

“Uh, Barton?” Coulson mumbled from where Clint was crushing him into the seats, his bodyguard’s face smooshed between his shoulder-blades.

“Yeah?”

“Wanna let me up?”

Honestly, Clint was pretty good where he was. The adrenaline was slowly starting to leech away, and in its wake was exhaustion and a racing heart. Lying down seemed an excellent idea; he could feel a tremble starting in his thighs that he was fairly sure wasn’t the result of lying atop the object of his affections. He attributed the warmth in his chest and stomach to be _entirely_ from lying atop the object of his affections.

But he slid to the floor anyway with a wince, fumbling to his knees in the ample foot-well, facing the President.

“Stay low,” he cautioned.

“I know. What about-”

“The rest of the team is going to finish what they’re doing with extreme prejudice, and then will get everyone else safely back to the White House, Sir,” Clint answered. “We’ll see them there shortly.”

“I’m not looking forward to explaining to General Fury what happened to Air Force One. Either of them.”

“It’s only a couple small holes, I’m sure a little spackle and a bit of paint and she’ll be good as new.” His hands were starting to shake now and Clint fought to keep them still as he brought his breathing back under control.

“That’s really not how plane’s work, Barton,” Coulson smiled, but his tone was fond.

“Says you. You were an army guy, wha’da you know?”

Which was when Clint noticed the blood on the seat.

“Were you hit?”

“No.” Coulson patted himself down with a smile. “Totally bullet-hole free.”

“Let me see.” Clint smacked at Coulson’s arms, wobbling up onto his knees with a lurch, fighting to get Coulson’s jacket and vest off to check for himself. “Shock can mask the pain, let me see.”

“It’s not mine! The blood isn’t mine, Clint!” Coulson pushed against Clint’s stomach and chest to push him away gently.

It took a second for Clint to stop pawing at Coulson’s clothes as his words blazoned themselves across his brain, the agent slumping back on his heels, relief washing over him.

“Oh.”

Coulson took his hands off Clint and even in the dim light of the car, he could pick up the slick stain upon his palms.

“It’s yours.”

“Huh?”

“The blood, it’s yours.” Coulson tugged at Clint’s jacket, pushing it aside until he could see the bloom of blood staining the whole left side of his shirt.

“Huh,” Clint looked down, an almost amused expression on his face. “That explains a lot, actually.”

“Romanoff!” Coulson yelled to the front, “He’s hit, Barton’s hit!”

Clint pressed his hand to the wound against his side with a hiss, swaying on his knees. “I don’t wanna alarm anyone, but I’m gonna pass out now. In a manly fashion.”

“Clint!”

Coulson’s expression twisted with horror, shock bright in his eyes and the world tilted, Clint no longer able to hold himself up as he collapsed forward, gasping as his chest smacked into the edge of the seat. He could taste blood at the back of his throat, choking him, staining Coulson’s shirt as he coughed.

Distantly he could hear Coulson screaming for Nat, calling for Mack to get them to a hospital.

“Clint, look at me.”

Nat was there, cool hands on his face, voice calm as she ordered the President to help her lay Clint on the floor of the car, placing his hands over the wound in Clint’s side and pressing down, urging him to press his whole weight down regardless of how Clint screamed.

Coulson looked panicked, his voice frantic.

That was wrong, Clint was sure of it. Coulson was never panicked. Never. He tried to ask Coulson what was wrong but nothing but a gurgling noise made it past his lips

“Stay with me, Clint! Stay with my voice. Listen to me, stay with the sound of my voice. Look at me, Clint. I’m right here, look at me. Please hold on. We’re nearly there, please. I need you to breathe for me! Please, just breathe for me. Stay with me!”

Clint tried to open his mouth to try and reassure him, make a joke, something. But he couldn’t breathe, the pain suffocating, his vision fading as he struggled to zero in on Coulson's face.

_‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’_

  
As the darkness took him, Clint was grateful that at least he died with Phil’s touch.  
*

_“We interrupt this programming for a breaking news bulletin.”_

_“An assassination attempt on President Coulson was averted earlier tonight. At least six gunmen, thought to be members of the neo-Nazi terrorist group ‘The Sons of Hydra’ opened fire on the President and his staff as he prepared to board Air Force One at Andrews. Up to ten members of the Secret service are believed to have been killed.”_

_“The President was unharmed and is expected to address the Nation shortly.”_

_“We will be bringing you more information as this story develops.”_  
  
*  
“GSW to the stomach, exit wound in the lower back, high-powered round. Pulse is weak,” Natasha rattled off what she knew to the crowd of medical personal that met them at the door, Coulson uncaring of his own safety as he carried Clint a few feet from the car to the gurney as Mack roared off, going far enough to get the car out of the ambulance bay before jumping the curb to park it haphazardly across the sidewalk.

____“____ He stopped breathing in the car, but I got him back.” Together, Natasha and Phil were swept along with the gurney into a trauma room, a doctor already waiting for them.

Coulson flattened himself to the wall as Clint was transferred to the bed, resisting Natasha’s best efforts to remove him.

“We have to get you safe, Sir.”

“Not leaving.” Phil didn’t take his eyes off Clint, at the terrifying array of machines he was being hooked up to, how small and vulnerable he looked. How still and pale.

“Sir-”

“Not leaving, Agent Romanoff. Call whomever you need to get here. They can secure a room, and we’ll go when Clint’s going to surgery. I’m not leaving.”

“Sir-”

“Don’t ask me again.” From the corner of his eye, Phil saw Natasha’s sharp nod, her own eyes on her best friend as she stepped back to flatten herself to the wall beside him.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Let’s get him prepped for surgery,” the doctor drew two vials of blood from Clint’s arm, calling over her shoulder to a nurse that stood in the door. “Hang two bags O-neg, take this for cross-match, we’re gonna need more in theater. I need a portable chest X-ray and call up to theater, let them know we’re coming as soon as he’s-”

A dull flat tone filled the small room.

__*__

_“Just in, we have unconfirmed reports that the President was in a car that rushed to Marion Grow Medical facility at Andrews ten minutes ago and that an injured man was rushed into the hospital, but we don’t yet know if that was indeed President Coulson or a member of his team._

_“Though President Coulson has yet to make any form of address, every account from witnesses has stated that the President is unharmed by the attempt and so it is assumed that the injured party was actually a member of his security detail. We know that the President maintains very good relationships with all of his staff, especially the men and women into whose hands he trusts his life, and he has spoken in the past of how knowing that they would each sacrifice themselves for his safety has deeply affected him and so if a member of his detail has been severely injured, it goes without saying that the best of medical care would be supplied._

_“There are also rumours that Melinda May, the President’s Chief Of Staff was responsible for keeping safe the staff members that were aboard Air Force One at the time of the attack. It appears that the attempt on the President came while he was inside the hangar that houses the world’s most famous aircrafts, and that after those agents on the runway had been killed, a member of the group of would-be assassins shut himself in the plane with many of the West Wing staff, though as to whether his objective was to kill them or hold them as hostages is not yet clear. While she is famous in political circles for her laconic stoicism, Ms May might now be scaring those on both sides of the aisle for a whole other reason.”_

____*_ _ _ _

____“____ We can’t – I can’t lose him!”

“I’m doing what I can, Sir,” the young doctor responded, seemingly unfazed by the President as she grabbed the defibrillator paddles. “I need you to stand back, Sir.”

A nurse finished cutting away the remains of Clint’s shirt, exposing his chest, his skin smeared with blood from where it was still trickling from the wound in his stomach. It was such a small wound for the damage that it’d caused.

“Clear!”

Coulson watching as Clint’s back bowed off the bed, muscles contracting as the current rushed through his body before falling back to the gurney. Everyone in the room turned to the monitors and the thin, flat line they showed.

“No response.”

The machine whined as it recharged, just audible over the roaring in Phil’s ears. It feels like all the air in the room had been sucked out; he couldn’t breathe and his mouth as arid, but when he tried to swallow, he wanted to vomit.

_‘Come on, Barton. You don’t have permission to die. You don’t have permission to leave me.’_

__  
“__ Clear!”

“No response.”

Phil didn’t know how he was still standing. No Black Ops mission, no life or death decision, no moment of ball clenching terror he’d felt when he was a Ranger came close to how he felt right then; his blood was like ice and his gut was in knots and he knew the tacky feeling on his fingers was Clint’s blood drying on his hands.

“Get me one milligram adrenaline!”

The nurse pushed Coulson out of the way, to get full access to the trolley beside him, keying in a code to open a drawer.

“Sir, you really need to vacate the room, please. Let us work.”

“I need that needle!”

There were many things in life that Phil wished he’d never witnessed, and the sight of an enormous needle being punched into Clint’s heart, was topping that list.

The effect was instantaneous.

‘Beep…beep…beep.”

  
*

_“Two of the Military Police who were called to the runway have stated that at least four gunman have been killed by the Secret Service and that at least six Secret Service agents have also been killed. So far there has been no confirmation of this by the White House but this is the first indication that we have received that those responsible for the attack may have been killed._

_“We now go live to our correspondent at Marion Grow, Peter Parker. Peter, what is the atmosphere there like?”_

_“Carol, literally in the last thirty seconds I received word from a source within the facility that there has been a call for a neuro-surgeon, which I understand would indicate that the injured has been hit in the head.”_

_“Or possibly the spine.”_

_“Absolutely. It is important to remind our viewers that President Coulson is unharmed, and so the injured party is likely to either be a Secret Service agent or, potentially, one of the would-be assassins._

_“Understandably in situations like this, information is coming in in fragments and from unexpected places and uncontrolled angles that while we will always endeavour to bring you the most up-to-date information, we will also endeavour to ensure that the information is correct.”_

_“There is further news from the White House that there will be a press conference, held by Press Secretary Potts who was aboard Air Force One during the attack, and we will be receiving more detailed information at that time.”_

  
*

There were times when being the President got him past velvet ropes and behind locked doors, but apparently it wasn’t enough to allow Phil to hitch along for the ride with Clint to theater. As he staggered from the exam room, Natasha by his side and Mack steps away, Phil watched the swarm of medical personnel that completely obscured Clint from view hurry to the elevator. As the doors slid shut, for the first time in years Phil felt the need to pray.

He could tell he was trembling, could feel the weakness in his knees, just like he could taste the bile at the back of his throat and feel the bite of his nails into his palms, the pain the only thing keeping him from screaming until blood choked his throat.

He wanted to tell himself that Clint was tough.

He wanted to tell himself that Clint had survived worse.

He wanted to tell himself it was going to be fine.

But he couldn’t. The words rang hollow even rattling inside his skull.

A small hand wrapped around Phil’s wrist and he looked up into Natasha’s eyes, her expression unreadable, though there was a glassy quality to her gaze.

She didn’t tell him that it’s going to be fine.

She didn’t tell him that Clint would laugh his ass off at their worrying when he woke up.

She didn’t say ‘ _I know. I loved him too _ _ _’._ _ _ _

____*_ _ _ _

Coulson had refused to take over the chapel which had been the first location chosen for its defensible position when the rest of his detail arrived - along with reinforcements in the way of Bobbi and Lance, as well as Darcy, Leo, May and Skye who had demanded to be brought along, the three youngest members of his team babbling about the secret ninja skills that had saved their lives, as well as how May had walked into the hangar guns blazing - on the basis he wasn’t going to stand between a patient or loved one that needed to find comfort in their faith. Nor would he turn the doctors that were working so hard for their patients out of their own lounge. Eventually the key to the Administrator’s office had been procured and the rag-tag group had been safely ensconced inside. May had taken one look at the blood that stained Natasha and Phil’s hands and turned on her heel, taking Barnes with her, only to return a few minutes later with basins of warm water, soap, stack of scrubs and towels, her own knuckles bruise and bloody as she handed the items over before succumbing to Sam’s ministrations as he cleaned and wrapped her hands.

As the water turned pink, as Phil scrubbed Clint’s blood from beneath his fingernails, as he stripped off the stained shirt, his mind drifted, as it so often did, to thoughts of Clint.

The first time Coulson had imagined kissing Barton – kissing Clint - had been in the Oval Office a few months into his presidency. The agent had arrived and made some off the cuff remark about some reality show and for that brief shining moment, his face had lost its professional reserve and lit up, a broad smile gracing his features.

He’d been beautiful.

And for a moment, a brief intrusive moment, Phil had wondered what it’d be like to have Clint smile because of him, to feel those lips against his and trace that smile with his tongue.

While he’d been left reeling by the thought, he knew he’d remained externally unruffled, Clint immediately moving on to run through the changes in the security protocols for the next public appearance.

But later that night, when there were no distractions, Phil couldn’t help himself exploring the thought, of how Clint’s hands, rough and calloused and dangerous, would feel on his face, gently cradling his skull, keeping him _ _ _ _close._ _ _ _

It wasn’t the last time.

*  
_“I can confirm that an attempt on the President’s life was made tonight by members of the ‘Sons of Hydra’ Movement. Five of the men involved in the attempt were shot and killed by members of the Secret Service, while two have been taken into custody._

_“Part of the team of Secret Service agents at Andrews were killed in the attack, sacrificing their lives in order to protect the President, and I would ask that you add their families into your prayers. Clint Barton, Head of Security for the President’s detail was shot while evacuating the President from the runway. He was taken to Marion Grow Medical and it is for him that a neurosurgeon was called. Mister Barton has been a member of the President’s detail since his inauguration and like many of his bodyguards, President Coulson considers him a good friend. Mister Barton remains in surgery at this time._

_“An investigation has begun to determine how the terrorist group was able to gain access to the base.”_

_“I can confirm, once again, that President Coulson was unharmed and is in a place of safety. Once we are assured the threat has been neutralised he will be making a statement of his own. Please do not spread or listen to any gossip that suggests he was killed in this attack.”_

_“Miss Potts! Miss Potts, is the-”_

_“I will not be taking any questions at this time.”_  
  
*

____“____ How are you doing?” Steve asked, his voice soft, tone achingly gentle.

From where he sat on the floor, knees to his chest, Phil tipped his head back against the wall and rolled it to the side to look at Steve, only to turn away a moment later at the expression on Steve’s face, unable to bear the pity writ large across his beautiful features.

First time in years I want a cigarette,” Phil replied with a harsh, mirthless laugh. “I’ve negotiated peace treaties, and taken this country to war and not wanted a single one, but right now…”

“Buck’s got a pack if you want.” Steve couldn’t blame him. It was known between the majority of the detail just how Clint felt about Coulson, no matter how much the agent thought he’d hidden it from them all, but what was lesser known, or at least guessed, was how Phil felt about Clint. Steve knew that if it was Bucky in surgery, Steve would be reaching for anything that’d settle his nerves.

“Thanks, Cap. But if I start, I won’t stop.” Steve nodded and checked his watch.

1am.

“Sir, you hungry? Could rustle up a Hot Pocket or some-”

“No. But thanks.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Steve hated feeling so helpless and he was unable to stop himself from looking over to where Bucky was sitting next to Leo and Skye, keeping the two younger members of staff entertained as they donated blood along with Darcy and May. They were none of them matches to Clint, but when a nurse had come by to ask as part of hospital policy, they’d almost bowled her over with volunteering so fast.

It was something of shame that Leo hated needles with a passion. It had taken Bucky practically sitting on the guy for him to be able to donate, which had at least provided a few seconds of relief from the oppressive atmosphere within the room.

As though feeling his lover’s gaze, Barnes looked up, taking in Steve’s expression and smiling reassuringly. They were both all too aware of the hell Phil was in, how the seconds felt like years, the gut-clenching fear that came with not knowing, of being convinced the worst was about to come true.

It was Hell.

Steve was fully expecting Coulson’s ‘no’ when it came, choosing to settle down on the floor next to him. He didn’t bother with platitudes, with reassurances that Clint was one tough son of a bitch. He’d hated when people trotted out trite little clichés like that when Bucky’d been injured in Iraq. Instead he sat quietly, crossing his massive arms over his chest.

They waited.

____*_ _ _ _

Waiting for word from the surgeons, Phil decided hours – and several conference calls with Joint Chiefs and Congressmen – later, was like war. Hours of nothing-doing, of uncertainty, of waiting for anything to happen, intercut with flurries of activity, generally when someone walked by.

All under a pall of life-or-death.

As another set of footsteps walked along the hall, and everyone in the office turned towards the sound like a pack of dogs hearing their master, Phil heard Leo’s question to Skye, the Scotsman never having quite mastered the art of whispering.

“How much longer do you think it’s going to be?”

From where she was sat behind the desk, Melinda rolled her eyes and swiveled on the chair to resist the temptation to throw a pen at his head, but Skye elbowed him in the ribs, jerking her head in Phil’s direction with all the subtlety of a brick to the face.

“Right, right!” Leo gabbled. “And it’s gotta be good news, right? Because if he’d died they’d have come and spoken to us already. So it’s fine, more than fine-”

Darcy slapped a hand over Leo’s mouth, cutting off his nervous babbling to the relief of everyone.

“How about you come buy me some vending machine goodies?” Using her free hand, Darcy nodded Leo’s head. “Awesome. What a gentleman.”

Mack pushed himself up and joined them, nodding at Steve as he passed. He’d keep the pair safe.

When Doctor Simmons finally knocked on the door, Phil jerked so hard his head smacked into the wall as he leapt to his feet. Instantly, Steve was in front of him, Bucky and Sam approaching the door with their guns drawn, before ushering her inside, though Phil had to push Steve aside in order to see the young doctor.

“Wow,” Simmons murmured as she looked around the room, eyes wide and smiling when Leo gave her a shy little wave, “half the government is here.” She ushered another doctor into the room, holding up her hands to quell the instant response of the agents, introducing her colleague as Doctor Cho.

“Not quite, Doctor Simmons,” May drawled, hanging up on whomever she’d been speaking to when the doctor had arrived.

“Kind of feels like it. Especially with all the large, muscle-bound types. Haven’t seen this many muscles since my textboo-”

“Doctor Simmons!” Phil’s bark distracted Simmons before she could notice how Fitz’s face had fallen when she’d taken notice of Tripp’s impressive arms, the young agent long having since shed his jacket and bloodied shirt, clad only in a tight tee that did little to hide his physique. Under any other circumstance, Phil might have found her reaction amusing.

Seemingly restarted by being shouted at by the leader of the free world, Doctor Simmons blinked and turned back to the older man, a heavy silence settling between them and Phil felt the world spin.

“Oh! Right, you want to – Mister Barton has been stabilised-”

“Fuck yeah!” Darcy slapped a hand over her mouth when everyone whirled around to stare at her, every agent in the room reflexively reaching for their sidearm. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled around her fingers, “are we not celebrating that bit? Never mind, carry on.”

“While the spine is currently appearing undamaged which is far better than we’d hoped for before we were able to open him up,” Doctor Cho took up, “it’s not good. The shot perforated his small intestines. We’ve resected what we could and we’ve got him on some incredibly strong antibiotics, but that’s only a part of the story.”

“Isn’t that enough?” Fitz asked, ignoring the gentle hand May wrapped around his bicep.

“That wasn’t the only damage done. The closer the range and the higher the velocity of the round, as the bullet forces through the body, it creates a large temporary cavity, often far larger than the diameter of the round itself. That expansion can cause a lot of damage, to soft tissue, to organs, even to bones that aren’t anywhere near the wound. In Clint’s case, we seem to have gotten lucky with organ damage, but there has been a fracture of the iliac crest on his left side. We’ve removed the shards and the orthopaedic surgeon stabilized the joint as much as possible, but in the coming days, Clint is going to require further intervention from Doctor Banner, but before we can put his body through all that, we need him stronger.”

Doctor Cho’s pronouncement was met with silence.

“So what’s next?”

“Next? Well, Sir, I would suggest, given that we are by no means out of the woods here, that you contact his family, just in case.”

“We are his family,” Natasha said, her voice steel.

“I’m sorry,” Doctor Cho pursed her lips. “I just don’t want to give you false hope. We’re doing everything we can, but right now, it’s up to Clint.”

“You don’t know Barton,” Steve chimed in. “His whole life has been about beating the odds.”

For a moment, Doctor Cho looked like she might argue, but thought better of it, simply acknowledging the agent’s words.

“Can I – can we see him?”

“He’s currently still in recovery, and we’re going to keep him there another couple of hours, but once we move him to Intensive Care, then yes. But you’ll need to follow a very strict protocol, and I’m afraid it can only be one of you.”

Coulson nodded, turning to Natasha.

“In that case, you should go.”

Her answering smile was small, and soft as she shook her head. “No, sir. It should be you.” Her tone brooked no defiance for all that it was little more than a whisper.

“In that case, I’ll come for you when he’s ready.”

Coulson thanked both doctors, closing the door behind them as they left, turning back to his staff as he leaned against the wall next to Fitz, utterly exhausted, relief that Clint had survived surgery coursing through him.

“Melinda,” he said, resting his head back against the wall and closing his eyes, “I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Skye hissed, realization dawning when Leo turned to him.

“You want me to write something, Mister President?”

Coulson clapped him on the shoulder. “Not this time, Fitz. I think I’ll wing it.”

Phil magnanimously decided to ignore the dark mutterings from May about idiots and their bright ideas as Barnes held out his own suit jacket for the President to slip on over the scrub top.

 

_*  
“Coming up next, we’re joined by terrorism expert Luke Cage as we analyse President Coulson’s address to the nation, as well as his promise to double down on home-grown terrorism.”_

____*____

____  
____ Doctor Banner was still untying the mask that was hanging around his neck as he came to collect Coulson, leading him, Rogers and Barnes, down a veritable maze of hallways until they reached a private room, gesturing for Coulson to wash his hands in the sink that was bolted to the wall beside the door, handing him a paper mask once he’d completed the task.

“This is normally a room kept for quarantine, so he’s isolated from the rest of the hospital, which I believe will make it easier for you to guard while he’s here. He’s heavily sedated still; we need him to remain immobile.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

‘ _Time to go in,_ ’ he told himself, hand trembling a little as he reached out for the handle. ‘ _Come on…Just turn the knob and open the fucking door.’_

Pushing through the door, Coulson was greeted with an overwhelming reek of anti-septic, everything a bright and blinding white. The only sounds were the constant, subtle beeps of the dizzying array of machines that Clint was hooked up to and the rough whine of the ventilator.

“Try talking to him,” Banner suggested from behind him. “While he’s not technically in a coma per se, some believe those that are unconscious can hear their friends and families, that it provides a bridge for them to come back across. I don’t know where I stand on that, but it can’t hurt.” He stepped back, pulling the door closed with him.

“I’ll give you some privacy.” The door closed with a soft click.

“Hi, Clint.”

He felt faintly ridiculous; it wasn’t like Clint was going to respond. Phil stepped closer to the bed. Beneath the pristine white sheet, Clint was a pallid grey, another blood transfusion slowly dripping its way into his system, other IVs hooked up to his other arm.

Taking a seat, Phil found himself staring at Clint’s left hand. Clint had a soldier’s hands, ones used to hard work and hard choices. Long fingers had knuckles a touch too large for them to be really elegant, but to Phil, they were beautiful.

“You saved my life tonight, Clint. I can’t ever repay that,” he spoke into the quiet, reaching out for that hand before hesitating at the last moment, hand hovering uselessly in mid-air.

“Fuck it,” Phil let his fingertips trace the prominent veins that lined the back of Clint’s hand, stroking the rough skin that was cooler than he’d ever imagined. He was hit with a need to keep it warm, to tuck it under the blanket that covered Clint, to protect the man that protected him.

“You’re going to be fine, Clint.” His tone was far firmer than his resolution.  
Phil rubbed his face, grimacing at the grimy feel of his skin. With a shake of his head, he dropped one hand to rest mere millimetres from where Clint’s was now hidden by the blanket and watched the other man’s chest rise and fall.

“What am I going to do with you?”

*

“I know you were thinking about taking some vacation time, Clint, but you’ve really don’t want to waste it here. I know it’s selfish, but I really need you to get better and wake up.”

Clint had been returned to his room after the promised surgery on his pelvis, Doctor Banner quietly optimistic about his patient’s chances, impressed with how well he was recovering from the ordeal he’d been through three days previous. Coulson had tried very hard to tamp down on the thrill that had run up his spine, desperate not to let himself fall into denial about the severity of Clint’s condition.

The first day Phil had refused to leave, only moving away from Clint’s bedside when the nurses had required greater access to their patient. Periodically May had appeared at his side with paperwork, or a phone or some update on the interrogation of the two men taken into custody, but for the most part, he’d sat by Clint’s side, one hand resting around Clint’s thick wrist and thought over the friendship that had grown between them over the years from a shared love of terrible TV and inhuman quantities of coffee.

At first he’d been at a loss of what to talk about and so at first he’d been alternating between reading his paperwork aloud and repeating back what the nurses had told him, keeping Clint appraised of his prognosis.

The second day May had dragged his ass back to the White House. The Secret Service, temporarily headed up by Romanoff, and the FBI had joined together to form a taskforce for the purpose of carrying out a number of raids based off the information gleaned from what had been learned from the prisoners and what was found at the residences of those that had been identified from the assassination attempt. It seemed the Sons of Hydra was a far larger organisation than anyone had thought and the President was needed at the helm. Apparently the world didn’t come screeching to a halt because the man Coulson loved was in hospital.

But later that night, he’d returned; being President might not have allowed him to follow Clint to theater, but it did mean that regular visiting hours were not something that applied to him. In Phil’s absence someone had cleaned Clint up, washing away the sweat and dried blood from his skin, and swiped balm around his lips, dry from the ventilator. Though he remained unnaturally still, his condition seemed improved, his skin a far healthier pink rather than grey. Phil had talked until he’d fallen asleep, one hand resting over Clint’s.

Tonight he’d started by reciting back everything Banner had told him, including that he’d been able to avoid slicing through the intricate tattoo that arched up Clint’s back and around his ribcage.

“Did you know I looked up the difference between a hawk and a falcon because of you? I overheard Barnes commenting on your tattoo once and he called it a falcon and you were pretty derisive. Didn’t want to make the same mistake if I ever got to see it.”

Coulson huffed at himself. “I was never going to get to see it, but I thought if it meant enough for you to tattoo on yourself that it was important to you. I wanted to know everything that was important to you.”

Phil rested his hand atop Clint’s cool one, letting his fingers slot between Clint’s. “Learned a lot because of you. And not just that trick with the vinegar for my coffee machine.” Phil reached for the enormous mug that a nurse had dug out for him. Coffee from the nurse’s lounge might as well have been tar, but it was hot and he had the equivalent of a bucket of the stuff to counteract the exhaustion he felt from having only had a handful of hours’ worth of sleep over the last few days. It wouldn’t be enough to stop him falling asleep, but it’d keep him talking to Clint for a while.

“We’re going to be keeping him under just a little longer,” came a voice from behind him, and Phil absolutely didn’t startle.

“Doctor Simmons.” The doctor was peering around the door and looked as exhausted as he felt, dark circles under her eyes, her face pale and her hair mussed. Phil wondered if she’d left the hospital since Clint had arrived.

“He’s responding well,” she said, slipping into the room properly though she remained by the door, “we just need him to stay still and from what we’ve been told, that’s not-”

“Oh he can. He can stay still for days on end when he has to, but not when he’s sick. Tried to come to work with a 104 fever once.”

Simmons smiled. “Yes, Leo, uh, Mr Fitz told me that story.”

‘ _Leo, huh?_ ’ Phil had known that the rest of his staff had been visiting, and should have guessed that Fitz had been spending time with the beautiful young doctor from the way the speechwriter had been wandering around in a daze.

“Speaking of temperatures, I was told earlier that his fever was down?”

Doctor Simmons’ grin was blinding. “Oh, yes! He’s responding really well to the antibiotics, so we’ve definitely turned a corner there. He’s not out of the woods, of course not, you don’t just take a high-powered round to the stomach and get over it-” Simmons snapped her mouth shut with a click.

‘ _Impressive_ ,’ Phil mused in the privacy of his own head. ‘ _It only took her five seconds to stop this time._ ’

“I’ll let you, uh, I’ll just go.”

“Doctor Simmons?” She turned back towards him.

“Jemma, please.”

“Thank you, Jemma.”

“It’s my job.”

“Thank you, Jemma,” Phil repeated firmly, with a smile. “Please, get some sleep.”

“Yes, Mr President.”

“Coulson.” Her beautiful face lit up as she smiled, her cheeks flushing an attractive pink as she ducked her head shyly, overwhelmed at the gesture.

“Good night, Coulson.”

Careful of the IV port on the back of Clint’s hand, Phil rested his hand around the curve of Clint’s forearm, the muscles corded beneath his palm, pale hairs scratching against his skin.

“So, where did we get to last night?” Phil leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Oh, yeah. So, I met Melinda when I was seventeen and stupid, and lemme tell you, those terms are synonymous. Senior year of high school, in walks this transfer student…”

*

“So, Skye was here.”

Phil held up the note he’d found at Clint’s bedside on Clint’s sixth day in the hospital. “Apparently you were a total gentleman during her visit. She underlined that part three times, along with a side-note about how I have nothing to worry about. Why am I overwhelmed with a sense of foreboding? I should have known that the two of you would be trouble. Even when one of you is unconscious.” He smiled, placing the little note by the latest bunch of flowers that had been brought in by one of Clint’s many visitors. “I can’t imagine what she was telling you about. Probably about May’s ninja moves again. She’s teamed up with Fitz, terrorising the interns about how May is the only thing Chuck Norris is afraid of.”

At his wrist, Phil’s watch beeped, and he checked the time, reaching for the remote.

“Wanna watch DogCops?” The whoosh of the ventilator was his only answer. Phil ached with how much he missed Clint’s voice, his irreverent humour and laughter.

“I really need you to wake up soon. It’s getting hard to keep up both sides of this conversation going. Doctor Simmons has been reducing your sedative for a day now, Clint. You’ve got to give us some sign you’re waking up.”

Phil was running out of things to talk about and he’s not sure what will give out first, his stories or his voice; he’s talked himself so hoarse that his voice had given out during a meeting earlier in the day, and May’d had to take over. By the time he’d gotten back to the Oval, a multi-pack of cough-drops had been left on his desk.

So far he’d added to the richness of Clint’s life, the best ways to care for a vintage comic – including his personal favourite brand of gloves because only amateurs underestimated the corrosive effects of skin oils - the best pizza places in Chicago in the order that he thought Clint would like them, a list of the worst ideas that his squad ever had – including the incident with the goat in every agonising and embarrassing detail– and a complete strip-down of Lola’s engine.

He wasn’t 100% but he liked to think Clint’s vitals had an uptick during that, a clear sign of his agreement of the Corvette’s superiority over every car made since.

Occasionally, when his mind should have been on other matters, when he had a spare twenty seconds to himself during the day, Phil wondered what Clint’s dreams might be like if he could hear what Phil was saying to him considering that it’d been an impressive, eclectic and rambling spiel of nonsense. A sort of coma white-noise and as long as there was breath in his body, he was going to keep it up. He was going to sit next to this bed and talk and talk until Clint woke up.

Any other outcome was simply too abhorrent to contemplate.

There’s only one subject he hasn’t touched on yet for fear that it’d mean he was admitting to himself he’d never get the chance to say the words to Clint under other circumstances.

But it seemed his stories had given out before his voice.

“My father died when I was a kid. I don’t really remember him that much, but I remember a story he’d tell me. He took my mom fishing on their first date, her all done up in twin-set and pearls and him in waders, because he’d wanted to surprise her and her momma had told her it was better to dress up than down. He always said he fell in love with her that night. She just kicked off her heels and tucked her skirt into her underwear and cast her line like a pro. Said he knew she was the one just like that, like a thunderbolt.

“Happened that way for me too. Some backwater diner on the road, I was going over a speech with Fitz and I looked up and you were laughing at something Steve had said and that was it. I wanted to know everything about you. Not from a file, not from your colleagues, but from you. I wanted you to want to tell me.”

Phil took Clint’s hand in his, stroking his thumb against the palm tracing the long life-line there.

“Couple days later, you came into the Oval and I wanted to kiss you so badly I thought it had to written all across my face. Scared the shit out of me just how much I wanted to be around you. I worked for decades to serve my country, I sacrificed for years in order to become the President and all I cared about in that moment was making you laugh again. From that moment I wanted nothing more than for you to want me back so I could have the chance, one day, of telling you how much I love you”

*

There’s a voice, one that’s so familiar amid a sea of harsh tones and beeps and Clint floundered in the dark to try and latch onto it. He remembered flashes; a cool breeze, shouting, a sharp pain and a frightened voice. The same voice reaching out to him now. He clung to it, desperate to follow it back to where he should be, not this dark and empty world.

He blinked awake, the light above him bright. For a drug-induced moment he wondered if he’s about to be judged at the gates before an irritating series of beeps penetrated the fog in his mind. Clint tried to take stock of his situation, failing miserably, mind too sluggish to work properly.

He could just roll his head to the side; Coulson was asleep at his bedside. The President was pale, face drawn where it was resting against his chest in a way that’d be excruciating when he woke. Clint wanted to touch him, to smooth away the crease between Phil’s eyebrows but he couldn't move. Idly he had a vague thought that that should scare him, that he should be fighting whatever was holding him down, whatever was strapped to his face, but he was too distracted at the sensation of a warm weight on his hand filtered through the fog.

Coulson was holding his hand, long fingers laced with Clint’s own, even in sleep his grip tight.

There was no one else in the room to see the smile that stretched around the ventilator tubing as Clint fell back into the dark.

*

Clint woke a second time to a world of screaming agony, far more alert this time and hating it. Everything, including his hair, hurt. Every breath sent searing agony up into his shoulders, like someone had rammed a bicycle pump into the joints and was forcing air into it with every inhale. Every inch of his skin felt like someone took a power-sander to it and even then it was nothing on what the bright ceiling was doing to his eyeballs.

Then there was the other thing.

It was deeply unpleasant.

He tried to cough, praying it was enough to dislodge whatever the fuck was in his throat.

It wasn’t.

Coughing only made everything worse and he started to gag, and then the world really lit the fuck up, every bell and whistle that he was hooked up to going off like it was the Fourth of July, which was nothing on the pain that made his world white as his body was jostled.

A cool hand was suddenly on his, another against his forehead.

“Clint! Clint calm down. Clint, stop fighting it. Someone get a nurse!”

One frighteningly efficient nurse later, Clint was hoping like hell that he didn’t get her taking out the catheter in his dick. He was also wondering if it was treason to want the President holding his wrist when that happened too.

He didn’t care if it was.

“You got yourself pretty banged up there, Mister Barton. We’ve been wondering when you’d join us.”

“Oh, yeah?” Clint croaked, Coulson instantly bringing the straw to his lips, the water blessedly cool. He treated the President to a pout when he took the cup away after only a few small sips.

“Perforated peritoneal cavity, perforated small intestine, bone fragments, torn artery, fractured pelvis from the blast percussion-”

“Pshh. I thought you said I was hurt.”

“Mister Barton-”

“It was totally worth it. ‘Cos we won, right?” Clint looked from Coulson to Natasha who was lounging against the door. “I’m not just hallucinating Coulson being there, you can see him too?”

“I’m right here, Clint.”

“Then it’s all good. Well, except my suit. Guess my suit was totalled, huh?”

“For the good of man everywhere, it was burned.”

“Hey, that was expensive!”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Natasha rolled her eyes. “What’d that one cost you, a whole thirty bucks?”

“It was designer,” her friend argued.

“Of course it was,” Natasha placated. “I’ll buy you a new one. From a designer someone might have heard of.”

Satisfied he’d made his point, Clint snuggled back down into his tower of pillows careful not to move too much – he’d learned his lesson from the coughing that nothing beneath his neck wanted him moving at all - smiling happily.

“Clint, that wasn’t the poi-”

“There’s no point, sir,” Natasha whispered. “He’s asleep already.” She turned to Doctor Simmons. “We’ll make sure he’s careful.”

“He needs to understand it’s going to be a long, hard road to recovery for him. You need to prepare yourself for that as well, Coulson.” Simmons raised her eyebrows a little, a hesitant smile on her face. Natasha hid her grin.

“What, why would I- We’re not in a relationship, Jemma.”

“No, sir. Of course not. Wouldn’t dream of suggesting it.” She winked, or attempted to anyway, and dropped Clint’s chart back into the slot on his bed and left the room.

“Smart woman, that one,” Natasha nodded. “Make a good personal physician.”

*

“Coulson?”

Phil looked up from the paperwork on his lap, Clint’s rolling table playing double-duty as Phil’s desk, towers of reports and manila folders threatening to teeter over the edge at any second. Clint has only been awake for a couple of days, having spent the first one still drifting in and out of consciousness, though the doctors had assured him that was to be expected. His lucid moments, getting more frequent and lasting for longer each time, were interspersed with hours and hours of sleeping.

Apparently that was an important distinction from the sedation he’d been under before. Clint liked the sleeping, it involved no pain, unlike the waking times.

Especially when physiotherapists came around. Torturers.

Even better than the sleeping was when Coulson was there, the President arriving every night and remaining until morning.  
“Hmmm?”

“I gotta ask, did you make this the Rectangle Office?”

“Huh?”

Clint gestured, slowly and carefully because his everything still hurt like fuck especially after the therapist’s bright idea of gently manipulating his legs, at the two secured phone lines that had been added to the room, and the stacks of paper that sat next to Coulson’s chair, unable to fit on the table.

Coulson frowned and Clint found himself deliriously wanting to press his lips to the crease between his eyebrows, wanted to cup his cheek and run his thumb over his cheek to feel the rasp of stubble that meant Coulson hadn’t shaved in days, something Clint had never seen in all the years of working for the man, wanting to know how it’d tickle against his lips until they were so sensitive that a gentle press of lips against his would make him shiver down to his toes.

The faint blush that was colouring those stubbled cheeks gave Clint his answer.

“Awww, you did. I feel all special!”

“Yeah, well. It’s the least I could do. It is my fault you’re in here.”

Clint recoiled, his mirth falling away.

“What? No! It’s Garret’s fault I’m in here. It’s my job to keep you safe. You don’t have to stay here with me as some sort of penance.” The thought that it was only guilt that kept Coulson by his side made Clint’s heart race and stomach churn. Maybe what he’d heard when he’d been asleep was nothing more than a fevered dream induced by the cocktail of sedatives the doctors had had him on.

“What?” Phil dropped the report in his hands carelessly to the floor, leaning forward in the chair.

“You should go back to the Residence. Sleep in your own bed for once, get as good a nigh-”

“You think I’m here out of guilt?”

“That’s not what you just said?” Clint stiffened, anger welling up from somewhere dark and deep, unexpected and unwelcome.

“You don’t get to sit there and carry it all. It was my choice. I took this job and I made peace a long time ago that I’d give my life to save yours. So if you’re just here because otherwise-”

“No! I…” Coulson sighed heavily, shaking his head. “You’re my friend, Clint.” Coulson swallowed hard, not saying anything else for a few long moments, and when he did speak again, his voice was hoarse. “I can never repay you, or the rest of the team, for what you did but I’m not here because of guilt. I’m here because someone I care about is here. Because my friend is in the hospital and I want to do what I can to make that a less shitty experience.” Clint can hear it in Coulson’s voice, in the earnestness of his expression; Coulson meant every word, with all his heart and Clint’s swelled in his chest, a warmth welling in his gut that had nothing to do with the morphine he was still hooked up to.

Hope.

“Besides, why wouldn’t I want to spend my time here? It’s a magical place.” Coulson made a face as he took a swig of his coffee, the beverage even worse cold than hot. He put the coffee back down and rubbed at his eyes.

“You been sampling my morphine? Magical isn’t quite the right word.”

“If you had to deal with Fury’s outrage as to the state of Air Force One, you’d want morphine too.”

“He pissed?”

“Believe me when I say yes. Especially about what May did to the bar with Ward’s head.”

“It was a nice bar.”

"That's what he said."

*  
“You wanna know something weird?” Clint asked two days later, glancing over at Phil. The President had shucked his jacket the moment he’d arrived, his tie hastily stuffed into a pocket as he’d dragged the visitor’s chair up to the bedside, complaining bitterly about British Prime Ministers that didn’t appear to care about Phil’s plans for the evening. It wasn’t like Phil had actually missed the start of Supervet, but it still warmed Clint’s heart to think that the man had been irritated about missing time with Clint, rather than the adorable injured pets that were being healed.

It had also given him, along with Phil’s assertion that they were friends, that the President cared for him as far more than just his bodyguard, the confidence to tell Phil about the strange dreams he’d had when he’d been sedated, the vague memory of Phil holding his hand as he slept.

“I _always_ want to know something weird. Unless it’s about Linda the nurse and that creepy orderly. Discovered that tid-bit last night.”

“Linda and Beetlejuice? Really? I knew it!” He hadn’t really, but a lifetime of shitty TV medical dramas – he’s spent much of his adult life in hotel rooms, bored and in proximity of endless re-runs – had given him a faintly warped view as to the shenanigans that occurred in hospitals. Days he’d been lying here awake, and not one sexual hi-jink had been witnessed. Linda and Beetlejuice was just evening out the score.

“Focus, Clint.”

“You brought it up!”

“Something I deeply regret now.”

“Liar.”

“Clint,” Phil prompted.

Clint took a deep breath and waited until he felt steady. He knew what he wanted to ask, knew where he wanted what he was going to say to end up, but starting the conversation, going out on that limb alone was far more terrifying than any firefight. If the answer wasn’t the one he wanted, he’d find a way to be okay. He would. But he couldn’t go on not knowing. He didn’t have a lot to do during the day apart from staring at beige walls, beige linoleum and beige ceilings; it didn’t take much for his thoughts to drift to Phil, to the sound of the voice telling him that he was loved, to a story about fishing and diners.

He needed to know.

“When I was, uh,” he paused and grimaced, hating himself for being so hesitant and putting the concerned look on Phil’s face. Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look at the other man, but refused to be that much of a coward.

“When I was under, I could hear you talking to me. Only ever you though. I know the others talked to me too, apparently Skye wouldn’t shut up, but the only one I ever heard was you. And I need to ask you something about what I heard.”

God, this would be so much easier if he could look away, but if he did that, he’d have missed the slow flush that was creeping up Phil’s neck, the other man looking as nervous as a virgin bride on her wedding night.

So he’d definitely said something.

Which gave Clint hope.

“Not all of it is real clear, but one thing I do remember perfectly. I need to know if I dreamed it all or if I misunderstood.”

Phil stood up, his legs shaking from nerves as he pushed the table aside. When he crossed the small space between the chair and the bed, Clint’s eyes widened to see how Phil’s hands were trembling, but he adjusted himself carefully on the bed a little to allow Phil to sit next to his uninjured hip.

“What do you want to know?”

Clint took a shuddering breath and let it out slowly, sitting up a little straighter, looking straight into Phil’s beautiful eyes, unblinking and serious.

“Did you really say it?

There was a short silence, Phil’s gaze searching Clint’s face, fear clenching his heart and his breath with every second that the older man didn’t answer. Then Phil was reaching for Clint’s hand without looking away, lifting it from where it was twisted in the sheet, turning it over to run a gentle touch over the sensitive palm before lacing their fingers together, raising their joined hands to press a kiss to Clint’s knuckles.

Clint couldn’t speak, could barely breathe past the lump in his throat, blinking against the prickle of tears behind his eyes, relief coursing through him faster than any bullet.

“Yeah?” He croaked, reaching his free hand up to brush his fingers along Phil’s jaw, the stubble there just as rough as he’d expected, the skin warm.

“Yeah,” Phil breathed back.

“Say it again?”

“I love you, Clint Barton. Always will.”

Clint didn’t even bother trying to stop the bark of laughter that tore from his throat and instead slid his hand from Phil’s jaw to the nape of his neck, drawing him closer to rest their foreheads together. It was awkward, both men trying to arrange themselves into each other’s arms without jostling Clint or giving up any contact, but they were motivated.

“Wanna know something weird?” Clint asked for the second time that night.

“Always,” Phil whispered.

“I love you too.”

Clint wondered what he must look like, still exhausted and slightly sweaty, stubble itchy on his jaw, glassy-eyed from the analgesics and pathetic in a gown.

Phil didn’t seem to care as he carefully hitched himself even closer on the bed, one large hand propping him up next to Clint’s hip as he leaned close, breath washing warm over Clint’s cheek.

Slowly, so slowly, the pain from his stomach barely registering, Clint leaned forward just enough, aiming not for Phil’s lips, but to press his face into Phil’s neck, resting his lips against soft skin and a fluttering pulse, exhaling a shuddery breath into the hollow before Phil cupped his chin in his hand and lifted his face.

The kiss started soft, like nothing Clint had ever imagined their first kiss to be. He suspected that his own response, that his own technique, was artless, lost to sedation and surprise and desire, flamed further by the muffled gasp from Phil, the sound eagerly swallowed away and kept safe.

Phil’s lips were dry and Clint’s were cracked, his breath slightly stale where Phil tasted of shit-poor coffee.

It was probably the best kiss of Clint’s life. He made a mental note to inform Coulson of that before Phil brushed his hand along Clint’s cheek, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone and thought slipped away.

He tried to tug Phil closer still, to deepen the kiss to make it rough and hot and intoxicating, only to frown in confused disappointment when Phil pulled away.

“Hey, what gives?” He slurred, fingers tight at Phil’s nape, stopping him from moving away any further, ignoring the pain lancing up his side and across his abdomen as he tried to get Phil closer again. Too long he’d wanted to be here, he wasn’t going to let a little thing like dying get in the way of getting his hands all over Phil.

“If I – if we don’t stop I’m going to-”

“Go right ahead. Let’s go!” Clint’s hands were clumsy at Phil’s collar, managing to finagle only one stupidly fiddly button before his hands were intercepted.

“We have time.”

“We could really scandalise the nurses.”

“No.”

“It’ll be fun.”

Phil didn’t doubt that for a second.

“I’m fine, y’know. C’mon, let me prove it to you! You can take me for a test drive. Doesn’t have to be the full race, just first and second gear maybe.” Clint waggled his left hand before dropping it to try and cup Phil through his pants, pouting when he was gently intercepted so close to his prize.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you’re not fine! You died less than two weeks ago, Clint. You died. You’re in pain. You’ve had multiple surgeries and can barely move. You’re in hospital-”

“Exactly!” Clint interrupted.

“What?!” Phil was getting whiplash from this conversation and he wondered about his desire to spend the rest of his life with this man; he knew this wasn’t going to be the last time he was confused.

“What better place? We bust a few stitches and my nurse is one bell push away. It’s a perfect plan.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“It’s my best quality.”

“That’s debatable.”

“But I’ve finally gotten you in my clutches, and you’re gonna gimme nothing? This is prom night all over again!”

"I'm sitting on your bed, Clint." Clint wallowed in Phil’s fond tone. “We’ve already gotten further than my prom night ever did.”

"But you could be in the bed."

"No. I really couldn't; hospital policy. I'm not actually allowed to be sitting on the bed."

"What's the point in being the President if you can't bend a rule or two?"

"The point is in ensuring I'm elected for a second term as the most powerful man in the world so I can try to make it a better place."

Clint let his gaze travel down Phil's body to rest on his crotch, smirking at how Phil shifted in place. "Most powerful, huh? We'll see about that.”

 

*

“Would you stop fussing, woman?”

“No. You’ll do something stupid, fall and die. I imagine that would make me sad.” They both knew that was the closest Natasha was ever going to get to admitting how terrified she’d been from the moment Clint had passed out in the car to the second he’d woken up, and now that he was finally out of the hospital – after an interminable five weeks – she was starting to relax again.

“Almost worth it to get you to – OW!” Clint shot a look of utter betrayal at his best friend from where he’d landed on the mattress.

“Baby.”

“I was shot!”

“And now you’re fine.”

Clint waggled his eyebrows.

“And in Phil’s bed.”

“On rather than in,” came a voice from the doorway, and Clint’s face lit up, hands waving Natasha out of the way, his friend having to stop him making a break for his lover. Foiled, Clint just reached out, making grabby hands at Phil until, with a roll of his eyes, the man stepped into his room, nodding his thanks to Natasha who waggled her fingers in goodbye to Clint.

“Hey,” Clint smiled dopily up at his lover, slipping his fingers into belt-loops to tug Phil to stand between his thighs. Phil was only in shirt and tie, his jacket abandoned in the Oval and Clint would like to think that his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow because Phil knew how much Clint loved to see him slightly rumpled. It was an excellent welcome home present. “What you been doing?”

“Leading a country.”

“That’s your excuse for not coming with Nat to break me outta jail?”

“It’s not bad, as excuses go,” Phil ran his fingers through Clint’s hair as the agent nuzzled into his stomach, nosing the silk tie out of the way, with only a huff to acknowledge Phil’s words.

“How you feeling?”

“Hmph, okay.” Clint delightedly explored the interesting reaction of how Phil’s stomach muscles had jumped under the vibration of his grunt. That had possibilities. Before he could mine them, a subtle – or what Barnes no doubt thought was subtle – cough from the other side of the door drew Phil’s attention.

“Aww, come on. No,” Clint whined, looping his arms around Phil’s waist and locking him close, knowing exactly what it meant. “You’ve been here a minute.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t really have the time to come up here, but I couldn’t not.” Phil really did look like he meant it, before he ducked down to press a kiss to Clint’s mouth, drawing back only to dart in again, a little filthy and a little desperate.

“All work and no play-”

“I’ll show you ‘no play’.”

“Could do it right now. Really, I vote for right now!”

The cough came again.

“Don’t make me kill you Barnes!”

“Like you could!”

“Wilson, control the boy!”

“Leave me out of this! Sir, we really have to get back.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s coming.”

“God, I hope not,” Barnes muttered, the sound of Wilson slapping him following immediately after.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” Phil promised, pressing a gentle kiss to Clint’s forehead. “I’ll order pizza.”

“Yeah, the President of the United States just calls Dominos.”

Phil pulled a horrified expression. “God no.”

“Chicago snob.”

“Absolutely.”

It’s so painfully domestic, a scene that could be playing out in millions of homes across the globe, and Clint loves it, lets his happiness shine through, even as Phil bullies him to lie down and fussed with the covers, propping his love up on a mountain of pillows and making sure he’s comfortable.

It was everything Clint’s ever wanted.

Well, not quite everything.

“Stay.” Clint’s hand locked around Phil’s wrist as he stood up, tugging him back down onto the bed and into another kiss, lingering and filthy, full of all sorts of promises if Phil stayed in the bed.

When Phil eased back, eyes hooded and pupils blown, his lips were wet and swollen. Clint really needed to keep him in the bed, free hand reaching to fist into Phil’s shirt, only for it to be intercepted and pressed against the mattress.

Clint pouted when he finally got his hand free, though he didn’t reach for Phil again.

Clearly a brute force approach wasn’t working; Clint would have to try a different tactic.

“Choosing running the country over me? I’m hurt.”

“Learning self-control would be good for you. Delayed gratification-”

Clint let out a groan.

“Are you oka-” Phil’s eyes were wide as he tried to move away on the bed, sure he’d somehow jostled Clint, causing him pain, but as he looked up at his lover, Phil noted the pleasure on Clint’s face and sighed. “Clint, where is your hand?”

Clint raised his eyebrows, biting down on his lower lip as he pressed his head back into the plush pillows, groaning anew at how Phil’s scent surrounded him.

“Give you three guesses,” he moaned, a thrill roaring up his spine at the look Phil shot him and his hand moved faster beneath the sheet. “What can I say,” he smirked at Phil, “those fifty buck words of yours do it for me.” Clint delighted in how Phil’s mouth fell slack, his tongue snaking out to wet kiss-roughened lips.

“Don’t mind me,” he panted, turning his head to rest his cheek against Phil’s arm. “You go save whatever country I’ve never heard of needs you this time.” As he always did when Clint pretended to be stupid, Phil rolled his eyes.

“Completely incorrigible. Not to mention totally shameless.”

“Weeks, Phil. Weeks. No privacy, no heavy petting, no you in my bed.”

“You’re in my bed now.”

“And you’re off to save the world, rather than in it with me. A man with as hot a boyfriend as I have has needs. Wants. Like how I really want to come in your bed. You being in it is, at this point, simply a bonus.”

“But not a necessity?” Phil arched one brow before reaching up to draw the sheet back, revealing Clint to his avid gaze. His lover had lost weight and the scars along his abdomen would remain an angry red for some time, but over the weeks Clint had gotten less self-conscious of them, secure in Phil’s love.

Phil had fantasised of this for years; Clint in his bed, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, breath shallow as he watched Phil, his sweats pushed down to reveal his cock, hips thrusting languidly into his fist, the slick head appearing and disappearing, and while this wasn’t quite how he’d imagined he’d get his greatest desire, it was so much better than he’d ever dreamed.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed, pushing Clint’s tee up his chest, exposing his stomach further and the dark hair that ran from between his pecs and down to his cock, licking his lips as he ran his thumbs over tight nipples, delighting in the moan that ripped from Clint’s throat.

“Hmmm,” Phil murmured, “this is what it takes to make you non-verbal, huh? Think I like it.”

“Touch me already,” Clint ground out, the effort obvious as he stroked himself, eyes on Phil, pupils blown and eyes hooded, furiously turned on by being on display for Phil while his lover was still fully dressed, loving how Phil couldn’t rip his gaze away. “Please. Please, baby, touch me. Want you.”

“Never would have guessed,” Phil huffed, rewarding Clint with a gentle pinch to a nipple, soothing it immediately with the pad of his thumb, rubbing maddening circles around and around the little nub.

This time, when Phil leaned down to kiss him, his hand slid down Clint’s chest and cupped his cock, fingers slotting between Clint’s own, sucking on Clint’s lower lip, his mouth so hot and wet, leaving it slick and swollen.

“Let me,” he said hoarsely. “Let me, Clint.”

Clint cursed under his breath as he relaxed his grip on his cock, fingers wrapping around Phil’s wrist instead, straining up into Phil’s touch, hips rocking up into his grasp before Phil quieted him, smoothing a hand down his unmarred flank like he was soothing a frightened horse, thrilling in the feel of Clint’s cock, hot and heavy in his hand, pre-come slicking his palm.

It wasn’t going to take long at all.

Clint’s eyes flutter shut as Phil strokes him, pleading Phil to go ‘faster, tighter, forget work and fuck me, slick your fingers and prep me, slide inside me, finally, finally after all these years just fuck me, please’.

It’s tempting. So fucking tempting despite the voice of reason reminding him that Clint was still recovering, but with the fire racing up Phil’s spine at the rasp of Clint’s voice, the pure need that dripped from every word, the knowledge that it was him that had this gorgeous man so undone, that he was the one to bring such pleasure to his lover... It was so hard to cling to the sensible part of his brain that was being drowned out by pure Clint.

Clint was so fucking tempting, his chest flushed, back arched as he begged, hands white-knuckled in the sheets as Phil’s name tumbled from his bitten-red lips, gasping with every firm stroke, head pushed back into the pillow and Phil couldn’t resist the invitation.

Clint gasped as Phil pressed sucking kisses along the column of his throat, nipping the skin along his collarbone, running his lips along the rapid pulse at the base of his neck, tracing his tongue along his jaw and back to his lips, flicking it between Clint’s lax lips as he thumbed the head of Clint’s cock, other hand moving lower to cup and squeeze his balls.

“Fuck yes. Like that, please. So fucking good, gonna come like this.” Clint writhed under Phil’s hold until Phil returned one hand to his right hip, gently pressing him down, holding Clint’s pelvis still. Clint was clumsily kissing him back, little more than sharing breath and Phil stroked harder, feeling Clint shudder under his hands, his own cock impossibly hard in his trousers as Clint stiffened beneath his touch, moaning into his mouth.

And then Clint was coming, whimpering soft, needy sounds into Phil’s ear, hips stuttering as he came over Phil's hand and his own stomach. He relaxed back on the bed, boneless, panting into Phil’s neck.

“Fuck me.”

Phil groaned before letting out a shaky laugh. “God I want to.”

Clint spread his legs as far as his pushed down sweats allowed.

“What’s stopping you? Hop on!”

“Hop on?” Phil turned his head to stare incredulously at Clint, leaning down to kiss him softly, a mere brush of his lips on Clint’s. Clint brought his hand up to wrap around the back of Phil’s neck, keeping him just where he wanted him, deepening the kiss.

Clint flashed him a brilliant, satisfied smile when Phil was able to pull away a little. “You know you want to.” He tried to reach for Phil’s belt, but his hands were once more intercepted before he was able to so much as stroke Phil’s obvious erection through his slacks.

“I’m good.”

“Yes,” Clint winked at him, “you are. But I can make you feel great.”

Phil leaned down and kissed him, deep and thorough and a little dirty, feeling his cock twitch and it would be so easy to let Clint undo his belt, slide his big hand into his boxers and wrap around him…

But he had to go. He was already late for a meeting. He had to go.

“Later,” he promised as Clint slid his mouth hungrily over Phil’s neck, sucking the soft skin just below his ear. “Clint,” he warned, “I can’t speak with General Fury with a hickey.”

“Why not? Bet he’d be pleased you finally got some.”

Phil rolled his eyes, reaching back to break Clint’s hold on him. “Idiot,” he accused fondly.

“Still love me though.” Clint’s smile was brilliant as he lay back on the bed, sliding one hand behind his head to better look at Phil. “Don’t you?”

“For some reason,” Phil confirmed.

“Tonight, you’re gonna add to the list of reasons. My mouth, your cock…killer combination.”

Phil couldn’t help his groan, gaze flitting from Clint’s eyes to his lips, his lover biting the lower one between his teeth, letting it slide free slowly.

Just as he thought he might give in, Phil jumped at the sound of another knock.

“Sir?” Wilson called out. “May’s on the phone and she’s, uh, well…pissed is the word I’d use. I’m under orders that if you are not on the way to the Oval Office in a minute, then I am to come in there and drag you out by the scruff of your neck. Sir.” There was entirely too much humour in the agent’s voice, Barnes’ snickering going unchecked.

Phil groaned again, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Okay,” he yelled back, “give me a minute.” Sighing he released Clint’s hand, fingers stroking over the rough palm. “I get no respect. I’m the President for cryin’ out loud.”

“You better go,” Clint grinned. “Wouldn’t want her to get any ideas about cutting off appendages I have plans for later.”

“Bastard.”

Clint threw back his head and laughed as Phil awkwardly stood, trying to adjust his trousers in such a way that his erection was less noticeable and failing miserably. Glowering at Clint, he walked to the adjoining bathroom, water running seconds later as he washed his hands, Clint’s brow furrowing at a gasped curse.

“What are you – cold water, Phil? Really?”

“Shut up.”

A minute later, Phil stepped back into the room, his slacks far more comfortable, laughing as he threw a damp towel at Clint. He bypassed the bed, striding straight to the door rather than giving into temptation to kiss Clint goodbye.

He’d never leave otherwise.

“I’ll see you later,” he promised.

“I’m counting on it,” Clint replied with a cheeky grin, causing Phil to turn away with a heavy sigh. “Love you,” Clint said as Phil opened the door.

“Love you too. Don’t overdo it,” Phil threw the warning over his shoulder with a stern look, “I will be checking up on you.” The door shut behind him, Phil once more morphing into the President, and Clint could just hear the sounds of the trio’s footsteps as they made their way down the hall as he snuggled down into the sinfully comfortable bed.

Despite his protestations to Natasha about feeling fine, Clint really was exhausted between his orgasm and how his legs had been trembling from the effort of walking down the long hallways of the Residence. He almost regretted protesting loudly against using the chair Natasha had stowed in the trunk of her car when she’d picked him up from the hospital, and now that Phil was off running the country like the responsible adult he was and tucked up safe in the Oval Office, he could afford to relax back into the cushions with a sigh, snagging the remote from the bedside table.

“The President’s gotta have the good cable.”

____Life was good._ _ _ _


End file.
